Arcadia
by CalicotheCat
Summary: Heyes romance. Or should that be an unashamed - or at any rate, only mildly blushing - Mary-Sue. If Mary-Sues annoy you - you have been warned. If you like a little twanging of heart-strings - eventually - read on!
1. Chapter 1

**ARCADIA**

**PROLOGUE - NARRATTED BY NELL**

Rainy Sunday afternoons often have a 'What to do today? What to do today?' dreary quality.

Do you not find that?

No? Oh. Well, I find that.

There are, of course, lots of useful things I could get on with.

I could write that long overdue letter to Caroline McMahon.

I could – yawn – mend the tear in my lace fichu. I should. It is not fair to leave it for Mary. She's a housemaid not a lady's maid. She has enough to do. I should do it myself. But - yawn. Maybe I'll just never wear it again.

I could fish out my notes on that unusual complex fracture I set and, now the patient is unquestionably on the mend, turn them into a journal article.

I could even please my Aunt by, for a change, spending time in a way she thinks suitable for a young lady and practising my music.

I could – even should – do any of the above.

What I should NOT do, is spend the afternoon curled in the window seat watching raindrops run down the glass and brooding over Joshua Smith.

Brooding over ANY man is undoubtedly absurd and immature and a great waste of time. It is the kind of behaviour I once smiled at, indulgently, when I saw other women succumb. Without ever putting my opinion into words, even inside my head, I considered the proper scheme of things was for men to brood, unrequitedly, over ME.

And, if fretting over any man is foolish, fretting over Joshua Smith is verging on the ridiculous!

IF I am going to day dream about romance and proposals and first kisses and bridal gowns and - and wedding nights, I should EITHER choose an eligible possibility for the supporting role, OR descend entirely into fantasy and let Mr. Darcy or D'Artagnan writhe with passion at my feet and beg for a single touch from my hand.

Letting Joshua Smith fill my thoughts is so…so SILLY.

There is no future in it at all. He is completely ineligible for so many reasons.

I know nothing about him.

He has no steady job – let alone a proper profession. He does not even have an unsteady job.

He is not a gentleman. That is – he is not what Aunt Miriam would call a gentleman.

He is not …I pad around this in my mind…what I would define as a moral man.

He has no education. No – that is unfair. No man who is naturally clever, curious and reads widely has NO education. But, you know what I mean.

He left.

He left weeks ago.

He left weeks ago, without saying a proper goodbye, without leaving any way of contacting him, without even – though I am sure you appreciate this is not the aspect which occupies me most – paying my bill!

He left without – without SAYING anything. I mean saying anything to suggest he is interested in me. Unless you count…

No. No. He never said anything. Not really.

Probably he WASN'T interested.

Probably? Or…definitely? He hasn't written and he knows where I am – so …definitely?

Those last few reasons why my brooding is a waste of time are so depressing I feel my throat tighten up. I am certainly NOT going to snivel about him! Never. Never. Never. I am NOT! I get up, take a really deep breath – NOT a sniff – just a really, really deep intake of breath that might sound like a sniff to the uninformed – and stride off to look out those fracture notes. I am not going to think about him any more.

If I can't have Joshua Smith – who I don't want anyway, because – because – well, just BECAUSE! Anyway, I don't think about him any more – remember.

If I can't have him, I will have the pleasure of – possibly – seeing my name in print in a distinguished – well, fairly distinguished – medical journal. Or at any rate, most of my name. Because even if I am silly enough to have wasted an hour thinking about his eyes …and voice…and the way he…

Even if I am THAT silly, I am not silly enough to plan to send in my contribution to the accumulated knowledge of the scientific community spelling out the fact I am a woman. That is not just silly – that is plain dumb.

No. Dr. H.E.A. Meredith M.D. will be perfectly truthful and allow the editors to picture a recently qualified (true), highly enthusiastic (true), gifted (modesty aside and just between us - true), young fellow (Ah ha! Not true but their fault for presuming!) at the start of a promising career (fingers crossed!).

AND, when Mister Joshua Smith reads it – THAT will show him…

Except he is hardly likely to read it, is he?

And – if he did, by the time it gets published (fingers crossed again) he probably won't remember my name, even if I HAD included the 'Helen'.

He probably never gives me a passing thought.

Not that I care.

As I explained earlier, I have better things to think about.

My notes spread out tidily; I pull a fresh sheet of paper towards me and make a start.

Five minutes in – I hear hoof beats out on the drive.

Hope surging, heart pounding, I dart to the window…could it be…could it…?

No. Of course it couldn't.

This is ridiculous. I have been like a cat on hot bricks ever since he left and it is RIDICULOUS!

This time, I mean it – I really mean it! I am going to get a grip and forget him.

I return to my desk, pick up my pen and…

I go back to thinking about him. Thinking about the first time we met.

---oooOOOooo---

**CHAPTER ONE - NARRATTED BY NELL**

It was raining then too. It was the small hours of the morning and…

No. A little background first. I was sleeping over at the surgery – which I often do during the week to save the drive back to Aunt Miriam's place – BUT, this time was different, because it was the week Dr. Coopers always takes his family for a vacation in Saint Louis. He attends the conference, then he comes back leaving Martha and the children to visit with her mother for a month. SO, I was staying over without the Coopers being in the house. Since that morning, I was THE Doctor in town. Not the junior Doctor allowing the Cooper practice to expand and offer a novel service for female patients who might like to confide in a woman. Not the junior Doctor for patients under the age of fourteen. THE Doctor. For a whole week! So what if the big city hospitals didn't want to hire a woman – even though she'd graduated ahead of…

Well, never mind that. I was in charge! AND, I was going to show just how good I really was. I was jubilant! I pushed to the back of my mind the disheartening fact that for the past dozen years Dr. Coopers had taken a week away in April leaving no one in charge and that the town had managed to survive with Doctor Ellison twenty miles away in Clear Springs to call upon in case of emergency. I was itching for a nice little outbreak of - of - something not too painful, obscure enough to be a mystery to anyone who had not recently committed the most up to date medical texts available to memory and – curable!

What I got, his knocking and calls dragging me from sleep in the small hours of a wet, wet, night was Joshua Smith half helping, half carrying his injured friend from where he had him draped across his horse.

And when I saw so much blood, all the bombast went out of me like a pricked balloon. I had enough pride to hide it – but I was scared stiff.

---oooOOOooo---

**TWO MONTHS EARLIER**

"Is the doctor home, ma'am?"

"I am the doctor…NO! Try not to move the joint…I'll steady it – you take the weight."

"Knew there'd like as not be a doctor in a town this size…Saw the nameplate…Is he here?"

"On three – keep his hip still as you can as we move back - I AM the doctor - One, two, THREE. I said STEADY! Slow – Slow - Through here - Mind the door doesn't catch him - Can you take the full weight while I use one arm to clear...?"

A nod. He watches me sweep aside the items on the table.

"On here – wait - I'll try and - That's it. Go turn up the lamps." Light fills the room, I draw back my hands from the leg I had tried so hard to keep level; they are bloody.

He kept quiet while we carried his friend in. Now he repeats, "The sooner the doctor can get to him the better, ma'am…"

"I am the doctor."

It is the third time, but – I think – the first time he truly hears it.

"Listen, ma'am, I can see you're trying to help but he's hurt real bad, took a bullet…and he needs…"

Fear of failure, fear for the patient stretched out in front of me, every breath rasping painfully in his throat makes me snap; NOT the doubts of a man frightened for his friend that I can be telling the truth. To be fair, it might not be just my being female worrying him. Wrapped in my thick flannel dressing gown, hair in plaits for the night, face shiny with cold cream – I assuredly do not look the part. I have one of those round, snub-nosed faces making me appear as if I still belong in the schoolroom until I get my hair pinned up and an 'I'm a professional' starched blouse buttoned around my throat.

"Look! Either let me treat him – or, here's an idea – throw him back over his horse and ride twenty miles south to the next town where the doctor shaves and wears trousers, meanwhile – I'LL go back to my nice, warm, dry bed. Know what? Plan B sounds good to me. Close the door on your way out!"

I do not mean it, of course. He knows that. I do not look up for a second from the scissors cutting off the sodden boots; my knuckles shine white with the effort of shearing through leather, trying desperately not to move the foot, because if I move his foot the muscles in the injured leg and hip will shift too and then…

After a second of silence, the voice holds a note of apology, as he says, "I'll stick with Plan A, ma'am." A filthy – though finely-shaped – hand reaches over and gently takes the scissors. "It don't take a doctor to do this. I'll strip him – you get what you need."

I go roll up my sleeves, pull on a clean apron, tie up my hair in a linen square, scrub my hands rinsing with dilute carbolic acid, gather instruments, spray them with more carbolic, pick up the chloroform and the mask.

"Bring all those lamps closer. Set the mirrors you see behind them to throw extra light on the wound. That's right. Good." I am back at the table, now. "Did you say, took a bullet? What happened?"

Hesitation, then, "We was bushwhacked, ma'am. Leastways, I guess that must be what happened. My horse got spooked by the gunfire; I was thrown, knocked out. When I came round – he was…"

A groan from the patient, "Haze. HAZE!" He moves. He MUSTN'T move.

"NO! Don't remove that. Strip all round it – that's right. I'll take over." I nod over at the back boiler. "The water in there will be good and hot – if you could…"

He is already ladling water into pitchers. Good.

I raise my eyes from the sticky cloth over the wound and look at him, properly, for the first time. "Did you put on this tourniquet – no – stupid question, of course you did. I think you saved your friend's life."

A pair of brown eyes, bleak with anxiety, meet mine. He is right. This life is not saved yet.

"Haze!"

It will not be saved at all if he keeps moving.

"What's his name?"

"Er - Jones. Thaddeus Jones."

"Mister Jones, if you can hear me, try and lie still…"

"Haze?"

"Yes, everything seems in a haze – that's because you've lost a lot of blood and are in pain." I do not think he CAN hear and understand me, but … 'Always reassure the patient.'

"HAZE!"

"Mister Jones, I'm about to clean up this wound. But first – I'm going to anaesthetise you. When I put this mask over your face – try and breathe steadily."

I put a pad into the mask – add the standard adult male dose of chloroform. No – he must be near six foot and well built, I add a couple more drops. The blue eyes look panic-stricken above the white of the lint as I hold it over mouth and nose. I smile, pat his shoulder, try and look soothing as I can. He has nothing left to struggle with anyhow.

"There he goes!"

"Anything I can do, ma'am?"

"Yes – but clean up first. Throw HIS clothes, your jacket - your scarf thing - the hat," I look him up and down, he is filthy, but I can hardly ask him to strip to the skin, "…Throw as much top layer as you can out into the passage, put on an apron, cover your hair, then scrub your hands the way you saw me do. Scrub hard."

"You reckon I'm crawling with Mister Louis Pasteur's famous germs, huh, ma'am?" A rueful grin, despite his anxiety, "…I suspect you're right."

A quick smile back. He may be grubby, but he is intelligent – he reads more than dime novels, headlines and advertisements; AND, he is, again, understanding and following my rapid instructions before I even finish speaking.

"I can't turn this into the Massachusetts General Hospital Ether Dome, but we can try not to make it worse than it has to be - good. See the clock on the wall? Every fifteen minutes – as well as anything else I ask you to do – I want you to add another two drops of chloroform to the pad. Any change to his breathing – call me to look. I'd like to be able to forget having to check the time…"

"You concentrate on the leg, ma'am – I can cover fifteen minute gaps…"

"Good. For now, take these…when I tell you to grip, you grip and hold the tension – but, DON'T pull."

I start easing material from bloody, tattered flesh, cutting it free – or swilling with hot water with a little carbolic to un-stick the clotted blood.

"Left - tension left - now right - now…" I need more directions. "Er - diagonally toward the - er - that's right. Good."

I peal away the last remaining piece of cloth, stiff with dried blood. My heart sinks. I look up. Once again, his eyes meet mine. He may not appreciate every separate anatomical danger I have already mentally listed, but he knows enough to recognise – this is bad.

A silence. When I speak, the years of training pay off. I look calm. I act calm. I sound calm. If only I were calm.

"Clearly what we have here is an ingress wound to the right of the upper femur. However …"

Yes, I really do sound that pompous.

"…The oblique angle of entry suggests that the bullet is located towards …"

What can I say? It's a gift.

"Rather than proceed through the upper thigh, the optimal route might be to make first incision through the pelvic area …"

Or not. Either way, can I ever complete this extraction without severing the femoral artery? And if I do, will my efforts to prevent bleeding to death cripple him forever by moving the bullet through half a dozen key nerves. Probably. Unless, of course, I actually am as good a Doctor as I would have you – and everyone else – believe.

Good – and dang lucky.

"… You have a second regular task. Each time the chloroform is refreshed, mist the air over where I'm working with the carbolic spray…"

"Yes, ma'am…"

"Hold this steady."

"Yes, ma'am."

It seems only minutes, but he drips chloroform onto the mask, so it must be over quarter of an hour before Joshua Smith speaks again.

"Never seen a bullet so deep," he breathes.

"Did you SEE how I raised the muscle to allow me to slant the instruments beneath it obliquely to avoid…?" I realise my delighted crow of triumph is both premature and out of place. It was good though! I – me – I was good! I clear my throat and return to 'calm professional'. "Hold this. Keep it perfectly upright."

Silence. Without me asking he takes a fresh piece of lint and wipes my brow to stop sweat dropping onto the bloody mess below.

"Thank you." I do not look up. I am concentrating on angling around a ligament.

"You sure do have a steady hand, ma'am."

"So do you, Mister…?" All this time and I haven't asked his name.

"Smith, Joshua Smith."

"So do you, Mister Smith."

Silence. The air stinks of blood mingled with carbolic mist.

"Ma'am, may I know your name?"

"Meredith."

"Is he gonna make it, Miss Meredith?"

"Doctor Meredith. He's young, he's strong. If no infection sets in …" I meet his eyes.

If. Quite.

---oooOOOooo---

"Ma'am"

"Yes. Mister Smith?"

"When he heals up – and after watching you work, I sure do believe he will…"

A pause. "Yes?" I prompt.

Another pause. His voice when he continues is gruff. "Will he be…Will he still walk okay?"

IF he heals up, I would settle for 'walk at all'.

No. That is not true. I will not, NOT give way to an 'if', and I will NOT settle.

"There's a risk of lameness," I say. That is almost a lie of omission. "There's a risk of losing the use of the leg."

Joshua Smith stares at the still face under the lint mask.

"I'm used to thinking in terms of odds, ma'am. Can you give me odds?"

I blow out a breath. We avoid giving odds. We hate giving odds. No one ever really wants to hear anyway. What they want is something to translate as 'it will be fine'. I am about to deliver a 'difficult to calculate' avoidance, when I meet his eyes. A fleeting, pleading look. He is not asking for the usual reassurance. He really, really DOES want me to pick a number.

"Er…" I pause, calculate.

"Is it …?"

"Shush! I'm multiplying through variables."

He blinks, but he shuts up.

"I'd say close to a twenty percent chance of losing all use. About a fifty-fifty chance of some residual lameness." Pause. I think math. "With a circa fifteen percent margin of error," I add, conscientiously.

Another pause. The dark brows knit together.

"Mister Smith…"

"Shush! I'm multiplying through how much I can trim the odds because you're just too dang ornery to fail."

---oooOOOooo---

"I said hold it STEADY!"

"Yes, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

"Out of my light. MOVE!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"IF and WHEN I want to you get in my way like a great blundering ox – but WITHOUT the mental capacity usually present in the bovine family, I'll tell you!"

"Yes, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

Silently – just in my head. Please work. Please. Please, please work. Don't let him die. He's got a whole life in front of him. Please work.

Yes! YES!

The rattle of steel on steel as, at last, I drop a scarlet soaked bullet into the waiting tray.

"Ma'am. His breathing's changed."

I step up to the head. Check him. "Right. We reduce the Chloroform. From now on you…" On I go with my instructions.

"Yes, ma'am."

I pause for a moment, push back one of the blond curls. "Come on Mister Jones. Work with us. Your friend Joshua – and me – we're really trying, here. We both know you can make it. Come on."

The dark eyes meet mine. "Can he hear you?"

"Probably not, but…" I give a half smile. "We don't know, do we? It can't hurt."

I go back to my position.

Very low, I hear him murmur. "C'mon, Kid. You gotta make it. If you don't do it for me – it's not like you to disappoint a lady."

---oooOOOooo---


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO - NARRATTED BY NELL**

I am at suture stage; nose inches from the wound, almost pop-eyed with the effort of keeping the stitches tiny. I do NOT want to leave him with a scar that pulls and twists just beneath his groin. BUT, as the procedure draws to a close, my mind stops racing fearfully over what comes next. Exultation bubbles inside me like - like - like a great big bubbling thing!

"Did you see the way I traversed the ligaments? AND, did you see me loop under the…? I knew I could do it! I KNEW it! Ha! Women aren't suited to the pressures of surgery, aren't they? Ha! HA! I'd like to see that pompous ass of a…

Wait until I tell…As soon as he recovers I'm going to write this up and…"

I make the mistake of listening to myself. I do not clap a hand over my mouth because both are fully occupied. But I do clamp my lips shut. I risk a tiny glance at the man assisting me. "Sorry. That wasn't supposed to be out loud. Sorry." Pause. My cheeks are warm. I wish I did not blush so easily. It is such a – a silly habit – so childish. If only I could grow out of it. Embarrassed, I ask, "Was it all out loud?"

"Yup." A pair of dimples appear. "Ma'am, you just carry on! The more you pat yourself on the back, the happier I am! That means it went real well, huh?"

"I have the best assistant anyone could wish for. You should congratulate yourself too, Mister Smith."

"Don't worry, ma'am. I plan to get right on that…"

Short silence.

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

Some of my remarks of the past couple of hours come back to me. I once thought the irascible abuse flowing from the lips of the senior surgeons towards students was, if not an act, a shade over-dramatising the tension they were under. Perhaps not.

"Mister Smith?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Did I call you a brainless ox earlier?"

"You kinda skirted round the brainless part, but – uh huh."

"I owe you an apolo…"

"You don't owe me nothing, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

"Miss Meredith?"

"Doctor Meredith. Yes, Mister Smith."

"Do you have a first name?"

"I do indeed."

I do not look up, but I allow one eyebrow to rise. Pause. He does not ask. I hear myself say, "It's Helen."

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

Then, a knocking on the front door; half tentative. The sound of the door opening – again, tentative. A soft call, pitched NOT to wake anyone fast asleep upstairs, "Ma'am? Ma'am? Is everything okay here?" Then, much louder – our visitor has seen the piles of clothing strewn in the passageway and the light blazing from under this door – "What the Sam Hill? Mizz Meredith? NELL!" Rapid footsteps. I recognise the voice. Of course! Hours have passed. Eventually a dutiful deputy was bound to do a circuit of the town and see two strange horses – still saddled, blood on one coat – tethered outside the surgery. Mister Smith turns to face the door. His hand moves to a spot beside his right thigh – why? Did he mean to reach for his gun? It seems an overreaction – but perhaps being robbed earlier makes him twitchy. His weapon is outside with the rest of his gear anyhow.

"DON'T let him come in!" I order. I do not want additional dirt – or even another human being – in the room before I cover the wound. Before I finish the sentence, the door flies open and the bulky figure of Noah Lawson fills the gap. He has HIS gun drawn. I doubt dear old Noah would even dream of shooting at an unarmed man. Mister Smith does NOT know this, so it shows considerable coolness – and just a touch of the 'greater love hath no man…' spirit – that he walks towards the gun to bar the way, on my instructions.

"DON'T come in, Deputy Lawson," I call. My eyes are riveted back on my task.

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. So close. So nearly done.

"What the SAM HILL?" Noah does say that a lot. "What the Sam Hill is goin' on?"

At the same time Mister Smith is keeping his voice persuasive and reasonable, "I gotta ask you to step back, Deputy. It may look bad, but you can see the lady is perfectly fine…"

Look bad? What…? Oh! It had not occurred to me before, but I realise what the Deputy's first glance will have shown. Discarded male clothes out in the passageway. Me in my dressing gown having spent the entire night shut in a room with a barefoot stranger wearing nothing but his long-johns.

"Step back please, Deputy," still avoiding any tone that might sound confrontational. "It's nothing personal, it's just the mud on your boots and the dust on your coat the Doctor's objecting to."

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

Noah does step back. He holsters his gun too. While not running any risk of being mistaken for an intellectual, he is no fool. His second and third glances tell him that whatever IS going on here, it is neither threatening nor improper.

"Who ARE you, fella?"

"His name is Joshua Smith. This is Thaddeus Jones. Last night they were robbed…" A qualm strikes me. "Bushshacked DOES mean robbed?"

"Bush-whacked," he corrects me. "Uh huh."

"They were robbed and Mister Jones was shot. Mister Smith brought him into town looking for a Doctor."

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

"Did you notice, Deputy – I said ALL that without moving my lips?" says Joshua Smith.

Hey! Is he making fun of me?

"Whoever you are fella, you sure got Nellie dang straight. She never was one to let a fella speak!"

Hey! Just because he and my uncle were boys together does not mean he can behave as if he dangled me as a baby …

Well, actually I suppose it DOES mean that. Drat!

With great dignity, to show I am above such teasing – though he KNOWS I hate being called Nellie! – I say, "In half an hour I'll be finished. If you can come back and get cleaned up, we could use help moving the patient to a bed. Meanwhile, will you take Mister Smith and Mister Jones' horses over to the livery? I'm sure they'd be very grateful. And, Mister Smith will want to stay with his friend – indeed, Mister Jones will need constant nursing and I have other patients, so he'll have to stay. Then, when the sheriff comes on duty ask him to come over and take…"

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

"Oh," light laugh. Why does Joshua Smith suddenly sound nervous? "There's no need for that, ma'am."

"Don't be foolish. The sooner those horses get a good meal and inside a warm, dry stall…"

"No. I mean – there's no need to bother the sheriff. I didn't get any kind of look at those bushwhackers and they'll probably be in the next county by…"

"I'll rouse up the sheriff right away," says Noah, ignoring this. "'Course, we won't be able to do much 'til full light…"

"So, let him sleep. No need to rouse up Sheriff – er…?" The brown eyes look a question.

"Sheriff Bill Fraser," supplies Noah.

"Sheriff Bill Fraser?" Smith repeats, thoughtfully.

"You know him?"

"No. No I don't think I ever heard of a Sheriff Bill Fraser. There won't be much I can tell him – but, naturally, I wanna co-operate to the fullest with the law. Just may as well let the sun come up first, huh?"

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Last one! Suture. Tie. Cut. Finished!

"Mister Smith, please come hold this dressing in place while I bandage." I give Noah a 'thank you and good-bye' smile.

"Uh huh," grunts Noah. "I'll go see to the horses." A pause. "You'll be staying here then, Smith?"

"Sure. Until Jones can be moved."

"Nell – you oughta – I oughta go tell…"

"I am NOT going home and if you think Aunt Miriam will come here – Pfffttt!"

Mister Smith understands the problem but tactfully pretends to be deaf and keeps his eyes on the bandages. I take a couple of breaths. This nonsense can be so frustrating!

Noah decides to leave that argument for someone else to pursue.

He has half closed the door, when something occurs to him. "Er - Smith." He's embarrassed to mention it, but Noah is far from well off. "The livery stable – they don't offer credit to strangers. It's pay up front."

"I was robbed last night and," Mister Smith gives a rueful look down at himself, "…Do I look as if I have a wallet on me?"

"Tell them to send the bill to me," I say.

Noah grunts another 'uh huh' and leaves. By this time, dawn is lightening the sky. It is morning.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says. "My horse thanks you too."

"I'll just add it to your bill from me."

Pause.

"Doctor Meredith."

"Cut this tape please. Yes, Mister Smith."

"You do know I've no money. Neither has Jones. We can't pay. Leastways, we'll pay when we can – but I can't say it'll be real soon." Pause. "I can't promise it'll be ever."

"That's it! Hand me the scissors! I'm taking out the stitches and putting the bullet back!" I glance up. "You do know that was a joke? I'll trust you."

He sounds rather touched when he says again, "Thank you, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

**LATER THAT MORNING**

"So, what happened?" asks Bill Fraser.

I don't think much of his question. Tchah! Far too open.

"Where did the incident take place?" I substitute. "We need to know the scene of the crime." You see, I have read that the five best friends of a detective are, 'Where, Why, Who, When and How?' Or – were they the five best friends of a journalist? I must look that up.

Mister Smith half shrugs and, watching the sheriff warily, scratches his unshaven chin to indicate thought.

Maybe if I come at it from another angle. "Did you see where the bush-whackers came from?"

The Sheriff clearly thinks Joshua Smith leaves a lot to be desired as a coherent witness. He has a point. But…

"Remember, Mister Smith was rendered unconscious. I found a severe oedema – probably caused by the impact of a flat object at high speed here," I indicate the spot on my own skull, matching the place on Mister Smith's head I dressed – despite protests he was fine – after we, with Noah's help, settled Mister Jones in bed, "…On the parietal region."

"My horse threw me. Guess I hit my head on a rock," paraphrases Mister Smith.

"Such an injury could result in partial amnesia of the…" Idea! "Maybe we could do a re-enactment!" I have read about them! They are one of the most modern… "We could…"

"Doctor Meredith," interrupts the sherriff. "Does Smith's injury affect his tongue?"

I blink.

"No."

"Then please – let him use it."

What? Hey!

"Where were you when you got jumped, Smith?"

"Musta been a good ten miles west of here – though, every mile seemed a hundred to me with Jones slung across that horse, so maybe it was closer?" More uncertainly, "There was a rise to the East…curving into a ridge."

The sheriff unfurls a map.

"Could it have been…?"

"Do you think it was here?" I point. "Below Armstrong Ridge?" I bet I am right!

Fraser frowns. "Doctor Meredith, if you could move your head out of the way and your hand off the map, that might make it easier for Smith to see."

Huh! If he does not want my help – it is his loss. I gather up what I actually came for and make for the door. Slowly. I am not inquisitive you understand, I simply remember my Aunt's oft-repeated injunctions that a lady always moves with elegant grace.

"It coulda been here – below Armstrong Ridge," says Smith, deadpan. He catches my eye for a fleeting moment – twinkling amusement. He is not silently laughing AT me though, he is laughing with me.

"So you musta been coming from Teme Valley?"

The shadow of a hesitation before Joshua Smith's "Uh huh."

"And you didn't get a look at any of 'em?"

"I just heard gunfire, saw figures move in the trees – maybe three or four, next thing," he mimes a blow to the head, "Thwack and," a tapered finger indicates the spinning of fast-approaching unconsciousness. "…All I was seeing was stars."

I am about to close the door behind me, when the sheriff calls, "Doctor Meredith."

I scamper back.

"How long until Jones comes round?"

"Not long. BUT, if you mean – when can you question him," I consider. "Not today, not tomorrow – then I'll see."

The sheriff looks at me for a moment. A nod indicates that while he reserves the right to snub me as an interviewer of witnesses, when it comes to medical decisions, he will bow to my judgement.

A flick of his eyes indicates I may leave.

I leave. Slowly. (Grace, always grace.)

"Why d'you reckon they took your money but left your horses? Seems…"

"I'd only be guessing, Sheriff…"

---oooOOOooo---

Back in my bedroom – well, my ex-bedroom, so conveniently on the ground floor, I'll move into the Coopers' room upstairs – I go lay a hand on Mister Jones' brow. Hmmm. I need to order extra ice, just in case. The breathing is steady enough. Good. I begin a list of instructions for Mister Smith to follow.

I suffer a sudden bout of borborygmus, (or, in case your Greek is rusty, my tummy rumbles.)

I am STARVING. Where is Mrs…? Oh! Drat! The clock tells me it is way too early to expect the Coopers' daily help to arrive. Still, it is not as though I am incapable. Maybe I could make myself some… I run over my list of culinary capabilities. It does not take long. Maybe toast? I can do toast. I learnt at university. All those evenings we few women spent gorging ourselves on toast and cocoa and putting the world to rights until the small hours. Maybe a boiled egg? Not both! That would simply divide my attention and be asking for a charcoal incident. Maybe Mister Smith would like toast too? Or a boiled egg? We could have bread and butter with the egg – that is easy. I'll wait until the sheriff leaves, then offer.

A tap at the door. "Ma'am."

I step into the passageway. "He's still unconscious, Sheriff. And, even if he weren't…"

"No, no." He waves away my concern. "Until you tell me he's fit to be questioned…Nah. There's something else on my mind. It's Ann."

Ann? His niece. My best female friend in the town. No, make that my best friend, period.

"What with her husband bein' away – and her bein' – y'know…" He gestures.

"Pregnant."

"In the family way…" he euphemises.

I see where this is going.

"How can I do my job – and it IS my job – if I am constantly hedged around with chaperone rules? This is not a church social. This is a…" I am only joining my stomach in a little grumbling. Bill Fraser knows that.

"Who mentioned chaperones? It's just, though Ann never says anything; I think she feels nervous on her own…"

Ann?! Nervous?! She is about as nervous as I am! (Er – you do realise that is 'not nervous at all'? Good.)

"I wondered if you'd do me a favour and ask her to stay. You like Ann," he presses on.

Like her? I love Ann. Love her like a sister.

"Wouldn't she be a help – nursing Jones? You've often said she's…"

Yes, yes. I'm not denying she would be helpful.

"It only means her moving about across town…wouldn't interrupt her work…wouldn't interrupt yours…"

I think rapidly. Pick your battles. Sharing a room with Ann, having long giggling chats, as we brush our hair and get ready for bed – that is fine with me. Better than fine. AND, however much I protest, I know perfectly well I DO need a chaperone if Mister Smith is staying in the house.

Oh, I do not mean for a second I expect him to offer me any discourtesy.

But…

The short-term pleasure of metaphorically stamping my foot and refusing to play by the 'double standard' is just not worth it. I need to save my flouting of society's rules for things that matter. To risk invoking 'moral turpitude' sanctions to spend a night with a stranger – without even having the intention of indulging in compensatory sexual impropriety is silly. No, more than silly, it is plain stupid.

"I would love to have Ann visit," I say. "Would you ask if she'll come?"

"She says she'll bring her things over lunchtime…" He has the grace to blush, as I raise a teasing eyebrow.

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you. Hey…" I sniff hard. "Is that – frying bacon?"

"I showed Smith where the kitchen was. Told him I was sure you wouldn't mind if…"

I am already trotting in a porcine direction. He can cook!

---oooOOOooo---


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE - NARRATTED BY NELL**

After a morning visiting patients far less exciting than the one last night, (thank heaven for that! By noon I am daydreaming wistfully about pillows and wondering if Mrs. Whitfield would think me very unprofessional if I listened to the history of her bowel movements curled up on her sofa with my eyes shut.) I go back to see how Mister Jones is doing.

I tap on his door, open it. "Mister Smith. It's only me, Doctor Mered…Ann! You're here! You've arrived!"

"She's brilliant, isn't she?" smiles Ann, "All she needs to work with is the tiniest clue…"

Though his face is still tense with anxiety for his friend, Joshua Smith laughs. Clearly those two are getting along fine.

Ann is arranging a bunch of wildflowers in the patient's line of sight. That was kind. On the dresser I see a tidy pile of underwear, socks, pants, shirts. The sheriff must have told her Mister Smith was robbed and about the same build as Charles – Ann's brought a change of clothes. That was kind, too. Bless her.

I go lay a hand on Mister Jones' forehead. Hmm. Not bad. "Has he come round at all?"

"Kinda," nods his friend. "He didn't make much sense. I gave him the powder, like you said, in plenty of water. He went back to sleep."

"Yes. Whenever he wakes, both of you get him to drink as much as you can. Basically, I want him watered until it comes out the same colour as it goes in."

Mister Smith blinks.

"Nell!" protests Ann.

Well, tough. Sometimes 'ladylike' has to take a back seat to making myself crystal clear (pun intended).

By now I am taking a pulse. Hmm. Good.

I fold back the sheet from the cage arrangement Mister Smith and I contrived over the pelvic and upper leg area, take a look. Nothing seeping through. I sniff. Mostly carbolic. Good – but it does mask other smells. Sweat. Another sniff. Nothing to make me fearful of infection. Too soon to relax - but…

"What do you think, ma'am?"

"I think, you can let Mrs. Buchanan and me hold the fort, while you… No offence, Mister Smith, but I think you should go take a bath and have a shave. The bathroom's upstairs – first door you come to. There'll be plenty of hot water. There's toothpowder on the shelf. Don't forget," I nod at the pile of clean clothes on the dresser. "…Those."

I lower the sheet. "It's early days but – so far, he's been lucky."

A pause.

Mister Smith's voice is gruffer than usual as he says, "I reckon luckiest of all in finding a good doctor, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

**DAYS LATER**

"Hey, ma'am…" A weak protest from Mister Jones.

"Try not be embarrassed, Mister Jones."

I can see I had better get used to this phrase. I will be using it a lot. While I am pleased Jones is back with us, semi-conscious patients have SO many advantages.

"I don't mind waitin' for your boss to get back, ma'am. I'm fine."

"You'll have to wait a while," puts in Mister Smith, who is holding things where and when I tell him just as competently as he did the two nights ago. "The doc got a telegram sayin' he busted his foot…"

"**! Sorry ma… **! Sorry. That really hurts."

"Feel free to use any language you like, Mister Jones. And – try some deep breaths. This won't take long."

"$XX$! Sorry…"

"My senior partner," it sounds so much better than 'boss', "caught his foot while taking a trip on a pleasure steamer, he has two broken metatarsals ..."

"Huh?"

"Toes," translates Joshua Smith for his friend.

Uh huh. **!!! - I mean - Dang it ma'am!

"He's going to delay his return …"

"This ain't right for a lady - DANG it!"

"Nearly over," I promise.

Mister Smith realises I am talking partly to distract his friend while I peel away the old dressing. "Oh, it's not that bad, Thaddeus. If this fella – whatsisname – is so clumsy he falls flat on his face just taking a stroll on deck, do you really want HIM handling your…"

"HEY!" Mister Jones is actually blushing. Awww.

"…Your treatment," finishes Mister Smith, smoothly.

"That looks really clean," I pronounce, happily. "Now Mister Jones, all this swelling looks and, I daresay, feels worse than it really is…"

"Just as well," puts in Joshua Smith. "If it WAS as bad as it looks…" Breath is sucked in dramatically.

"It's just oedema - the area is so rich in blood vessels that the… "

"She's trying to say…" Deeply, but possibly not entirely sincerely, sympathising, tone from my right-hand man. "Down there you've bruised like a peach, Thaddeus…"

The patient scowls hard at his friend. The scowl is met with a wide, bland smile. "And swollen like a..."

"Hey!" protests Thaddeus Jones.

"Try and relax, Mister Jones. This preparation will both draw out the bruising and help numb the area – then I'll apply a fresh dressing, make you comfortable. Well, as close to comfortable as you're going to get."

"I don't need that, ma'am…" he objects as I start to apply the thick gloop I have prepared.

"Try not to be embarrassed, Mister Jones," I repeat. "I have seen worse sights."

"Sheesh, WHERE?" chips in Mister Smith.

"HEY!"

"Oh – mostly laying on butcher's slabs marked 'not fit for human consumption'."

"HEY!"

"Or living under rocks…" That was Mister Smith's turn.

"HEY!"

"Or being dragged in by the cat…"

"Now wait a min…!"

"Or…"

"Do you usually make fun of the sick, ma'am?"

"Only the ones I like. There. All done. It wasn't so bad, was it? Let's get you covered up."

Mister Jones glowers from me to his friend.

"Talk about ungrateful," sighs Mister Smith. "Yesterday you thanked the doc so prettily – didn't he ma'am?"

He did. Actually he said, "Thank you, Ma." AND, if I am not mistaken, Mister Smith misted up.

"You did this yesterday?"

"And the day before. And the day before that. Morning and evening. So all the modest protests are too late."

The forehead under the blond curls furrows.

"You were pretty much out of it, Thaddeus," says his friend.

He and I exchange a glance. Neither of us has said anything, but I guess we both know how scared he has been at times during the last few days.

"You've been in your haze," I smile, putting the final fastening on the fresh dressing and folding the sheet back over.

He reacts to the word, shoots an enquiry at Joshua Smith.

"Yeah. Haze, haze, haze. You've told us all us how fuzzy it is, Thaddeus."

"Oh," subdued voice. "Sorry, Joshua."

"S'orright. All over now. Now all you gotta do is lie there, eat the doc outta house and home as you get well and stop whinin' like a girl every time someone touches your …"

"Hey!"

"Bandages."

I hide my smile. Joshua Smith certainly has perfect comic timing.

"NOW, gentlemen," I say. "You have a visitor waiting. The sheriff has called…"

A look is exchanged. Wariness.

"…And I'll let him know, Mister Jones is well enough to see him now."

"Oh, no ma'am," protests Mister Smith. "Thaddeus is tired."

"Just for ten minutes or so. Then I'll give you something to help you sleep, Mister Jones."

"I don't feel like seeing no one, ma'am…"

"The sheriff – that's Sheriff Bill Fraser…" An infinitesimal pause from Smith. And – was that a tiny shake of the head from Jones? "Wants to ask if you can describe the fellas who bushwhacked us."

"Nah. I don't remember nothin'. "

"Can't you tell the sheriff that, ma'am? AND tell him Thaddeus is still not well enough?"

I smile. But…

He MEANS it!

My smile fades.

"You mean lie?" I give Mister Smith a very straight look. "I could, but I won't."

For a moment I think he is going to argue. He holds my gaze, than the brown eyes drop.

---oooOOOooo---

"So neither of you can describe anything about the fellas who jumped you?"

"No, Sheriff . That's about the size of it," says Smith.

I have stayed to keep an eye on Mister Jones. 'On the mend' is still a long way from 'better'.

"And – you've no idea who it mighta been?"

"No, sir." This from Jones.

"Couldn't have been someone with a grudge?"

Pursed lips and considering look from Smith as if wracking his brains. Slow shake of the head.

A silence.

The sheriff leans back in his chair.

"Now that surprises me. 'Cos – if I'D been accused of cheating at poker that very evening by a fella with a couple of real mean-looking friends…" He is staring at Joshua Smith. "AFTER winning a whole heap of money from 'em, like a real pro. OR," He turns to Thaddeus Jones. "If I'D stood up and drawn – had the whole saloon gasping how they'd never seen no one that fast – If I'D had me an evening like that, then found myself bushwhacked a few hours later – I'd wonder if it might be the same fellas. See what I mean?"

Silence.

"You see, I had two deputies ride the trail over to Teme Valley – to check out where this happened. To see if there was any sign of your bushwhackers. When they reached the town, they asked around. Seems the sheriff there remembers Friday evening well enough, even if it's slipped both your minds."

"That's very conscientious of you, Sheriff," says Mister Jones.

Bill Fraser is very conscientious.

He waits. The clock ticks. I crack first.

"Why didn't you tell the sheriff any of this at the time, Mister Smith? It could have helped catch the men."

Pause.

Then Joshua Smith looks at me. "Well, ma'am. I don't KNOW it was the same fellas. Me and Jones wouldn't want to be throwing false accusations around. We like to give folk the benefit of the doubt." His smile is an echo of the one he wore when suggesting I lie for him. I do not smile back. Once again, his eyes drop.

"Not a bad answer," nods the sheriff. "I don't reckon it's why you kept quiet though. Wanna know what I think?"

Wary nods from the two friends.

"I think you kept quiet because there's two things no good sheriff likes to see stirring up trouble in his town." The grey eyes fix on Smith. "One's a professional card sharp." His gaze moves to my patient. "The other is a professional gunslinger."

Smith's tone is defensive. "He's NOT a…" The sheriff raises a hand signalling 'shut up'. Joshua Smith shuts up.

"You were right to keep quiet. I don't like sharpies. I don't like gunnies." Pause. "HOWEVER, Sheriff Hagman over at Teme Valley told my men something else too. You probably didn't know it, but one of HIS deputies was in that game. He reckons you, Smith, are one first-class poker player, possibly make your livin' that way – but you weren't cheatin'. AND, he reckons you, Jones, were the fastest thing he's ever seen, but no way were you the one pickin' a fight. He says you bent over backwards to keep things civil – and the only thing you hurt, apart from the other fella's pride, was his holster."

Pause.

"My niece Ann, she's been here days now and hasn't a bad word to say about you, Smith. She's no fool."

Pause.

"So – what you were sayin' back there, about giving folk the benefit of the doubt. Okay. Jones is sick and you're nursing him – fair enough. When he's well – so long as I don't see him with a gun in his hand, or you playin' poker – you keep the benefit of the doubt. Do we understand each other?"

"I reckon so, Sheriff."

"Good. We think your fellas headed north. I've telegraphed descriptions to Twin Forks and Lonville, but – don't hold your breath."

"Sounds like you've done all you can, Sheriff. Thanks."

"I reckon I've said all I came to say. I'm gonna follow doctor's orders now and leave Jones to get some rest." He gives a long look at the boyish face, pale and clammy against the white pillow. His grey eyes soften. "You just worry about getting well, son." He leaves.

I mix a mild sedative for Mister Jones. I make him drink, despite his protests, a pint of water before I let him have it. "That's what the bell is for – for you to wake your friend every time you need to go."

Half an hour ago Joshua Smith would have used that as a feed line. Now, nothing.

"I'll be in the parlour with Ann. Come join us once Mister Jones feels drowsy."

"Ma'am."

"Yes, Mister Jones?"

"Joshua's not a card sharp…"

"And Thaddeus sure isn't a gunslinger…"

"The sheriff just has the wrong idea about us."

Maybe. Not wholly wrong though. I think of those guns, I think how they were worn – low on the hip and tied down.

"Joshua's just dang good at poker."

"Mister Jones, the sheriff gave you some good advice. All you should worry about is getting well. Go to sleep."

I leave.

---oooOOOooo---

In the parlour, I do not refer to what I have just heard. Unless Mister Smith brings it up, I would not dream of doing so in front of Ann. I was there as a doctor, I will treat it as confidential.

Ann and he have a game of chess underway. We chat. He checks on Jones. I read aloud another chapter of 'Far From The Madding Crowd'. Is Bathsheba going to fall for a handsome rogue? Ann knits. I check on Jones. Pretty much like last night.

Except - not. The atmosphere between Mister Smith and me has changed.

Like last night Ann goes up to bed first. She says she is sleeping for two now.

When she closes the door behind her there is a brief silence.

Then he repeats the things said before. He is NOT a card sharp. Jones never hires out his gun – neither of them do. I am surprised he evidently cares so much whether or not I have a good opinion of him. Pleased too, if I am honest. But, I am NOT so pleased at what I hear.

"…Can't think why, but it sometimes seems we can't get through a month without someone getting all riled up. Always someone who don't know the odds on helping two pair and turns into a sore loser…"

"And you can't think why?" I interrupt. I meet his eyes and hold them. Silence. "Well, here's a few ideas. Gambling means winners and losers. The losers find it hard to walk away – that's why it's called a gambling HABIT. They lose money they can't afford to. They resent the winners. In a saloon, those resentful losers have almost certainly been drinking too much. Mix alcohol and gambling and you get – what do you know? – drunken, resentful losers. Toss guns into the mix and …hmmm? I wonder if that covers the 'why'? Here's some advice – if every time you hammer, you hit your thumb – stop hammering!'"

Silence. Joshua Smith's eyes darken. They have a hard look.

"So, we've only ourselves to blame for what happened to Thaddeus? That what you're saying?"

"No. You don't have ONLY yourselves to blame. The men who decided to jump you in the dark when they couldn't beat you 'fair and square' are MOSTLY to blame. You have PARTLY yourselves to blame."

His hands go to his hips. "Well, I guess that dang well told me, didn't it?"

"What is making YOU scowl like a thundercloud, Mister Smith and DON'T try and shut me up with that, oh so impressive – NOT! – dark and dangerous look, is that YOU are far too intelligent not to see the logic in what I said. You don't want to see it – but you do! THAT is what is making you angry. Not what I'm saying, but knowing I'm right."

"I've only been here a couple of days, ma'am – but I'm beginning to think you're ALWAYS right, huh? Must be quite a strain – knowing everything."

I stand up, pick up my book. "Goodnight Mister Smith. Call me if Mister Jones needs anything."

I have my hand on the doorknob before I hear, "Doctor Meredith."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I raised my voice. And – yeah – I'm mad 'cos there was a lotta truth in what you said. If I had stood up from that poker table earlier – or never sat down – Jones wouldn't have taken a bullet. But…"

"Yes?"

Pause. "Nothing," he decides.

"But, things aren't always so black and white as a comfortable, conceited and far too opinionated young woman – who never has to move from town to town to look for work and never has to wonder where the next meal is coming from – thinks they are?" I hazard.

A rueful grin dimples his cheeks. "Hey! You really ARE always right, huh?"


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR - NARRATTED BY NELL**

Next morning I wake up extra early.

I worry that…

I do not know.

I suppose I worry Joshua Smith will resent my speaking my mind – oh, alright snapping my mind – last night.

Whether he gambles or not, whether or not he and his friend habitually walk around armed – one could argue these things are none of my business.

(Well, so long as they do not walk around armed in the house. Mrs. Tammett would have kittens! The last thing I want is the Coopers to arrive home to find their daily housekeeper has given notice. But, the moment I made the request, Mister Smith unbuckled his gun belt and left it tucked inside the bedroll he folds tidily into the corner of their room each morning.)

Anyhow, it seems foolish to lay fretting so, despite it not even being what is traditionally known as 'the crack of dawn', I get up and pull on my dressing gown. I have a pamphlet and letter which arrived yesterday and at which I have not yet had a chance to glance tucked under my arm. It was hardly bedtime reading, but I must catch up sometime. AND it is more constructive than re-running 'Should I have said that? Suppose I had said…?' conversations in my head.

In the kitchen, a lonely, leftover slice of apple pie catches my eye. I will make myself a pot of tea and tidy that away by the oral ingestion method. This will not only be good housekeeping, it will give me energy to make a few notes.

I light a lamp and start to read;

"_We found among a hundred patients, thirteen had slit cervixes and fifteen had other serious internal deformations. I would estimate in the poorer districts at least one in ten women is permanently disabled by childbirth..."_

I am thoroughly absorbed amongst statistics, opinions and suggestions, when the door opens. It is him, Joshua Smith, not fully dressed yet. He starts at the sight of me and quickly buttons the open pants pulled on over his long johns.

"You're early, ma'am."

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd make a cup of tea. I'm waiting for the kettle to boil."

"Me too. I mean – I thought I'd make coffee. Thaddeus woke, but I helped him with the bottle, gave him one of the powders, bathed his face. He's sleeping like a baby, now."

"Good."

We are both ill at ease, though how much of it is due to what was said last night, I am not quite sure. Because, on my side…

No, I will not say. It is silly.

Though, I suppose NOT saying is even more foolish.

All right. It is this; all at once I am very aware we are a man and a woman alone together in a dimly lit room, that I have my hair down, am wrapped in a flannel dressing gown, have slippers on my feet, that some folk would describe the time as 'middle of the night', and the other two people in the house are settled between the sheets. It is not the first time this has been the case, but something is different. HE seems to feel it too.

He moves to the stove. "This water musta been boiling for ages, ma'am."

"Oh!" I jump up, go over. "I always do that if I start reading! I put it on, lose track of the time and…"

"You wanna watch that – you'll burn the bottom out."

"Oh, sorry!"

"Sorry, ma'am."

We have leaned for the padded pot holders for hot handles at the same time. My - my, well one of my bosoms squishes up flat against his arm. We both spring back. My cheeks burn and even his glow. A pause. Then, as one, we reach out for the cloth. This time our hands meet.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

Another try – we withdraw before our hands get close.

"Let me, ma'am."

He lifts the kettle. Now I reach for the tea caddy, he reaches for the coffee canister. This means he bends left, I stretch right and our bodies cross. I can feel us both sucking in our stomachs and curving to avoid touching again.

"Sorry."

"Excuse me."

"Tell you what, ma'am. Why don't you sit down. Let me make my coffee AND your tea."

Awkward as a schoolgirl, I nod and go back to my seat. My ankles twist around the chair legs until I realise what I am doing, how utterly self-conscious it makes me look, and sit up straight.

"Two spoonfuls? Is that right?"

"Er…" I am STILL blushing. I meet his eye, go even redder, look away, "It's one for each person and one for the pot."

"I wouldn't set my math against yours, ma'am – but, since I'm sticking with coffee, I make that two."

"Er…" Of course it is two! Brace up, Helen. "Yes, two."

"Milk in first, or milk in second?"

"Er…"

"Or, is that a question that needs more time than we have?"

He twinkles at me. I see the funny side of all this embarrassment suddenly swirling in the atmosphere and laugh out loud.

"I think THAT debate had something to do with starting the Boston Tea Party! Let's leave it for the folk on the other side of the Atlantic to settle!"

"There you are, ma'am."

A cup of tea is set before me.

"Thank you, Mister Smith."

"Is it okay?"

I take a sip. "It's really, really…" Another sip, searching for the right word. "Mediocre."

"Better than my coffee then?"

"Oh, yes! No contest."

We smile at each other. I flush yet again as the dark eyes crinkle at me. Come ON, woman! Stop being so silly!

He takes pity on me and breaks what is about to become an awkward pause. "What are you reading, ma'am?"

"Oh, it's a pamphlet from the New York section of the Women's Suffrage Association. You do know Ann and I are members? Well, she's not in the New York section, obviously."

"I reckon it came up once or twice." He lifts an eyebrow, teasingly, at me. "Or maybe three or four times."

"Maybe we do talk about womens' suffrage frequently, Mister Smith, but until women can vote we are dependant on the whim of an entirely male legislature for action in ANY of our causes. Divorce reform, sweated labour, property rights, prostitution…" I tail off. "Have I said all that before?"

"Uh huh."

"It IS important!"

"Am I arguing?" The eyebrow lifts again. "Would I dare?"

This is clearly meant to refer to the reprimand I delivered last night, but in a gently teasing way. He is certainly indicating 'no hard feelings' on his side. Good! The four of us are all getting along so well, it would be a shame if it were spoilt.

He nods again at the pamphlet. "What is it about? " A grin. "Outta the list I'm kinda hoping it's NOT property rights. Though – I guess that could be the best for reading ourselves back to sleep, huh?"

I toy with taking him to task for flippancy, but the fact I have already given a loud snirt would spoil the effect.

"It is a pamphlet about the inexcusable legal restrictions on birth control information."

His face looks frozen. Perhaps he is not familiar with the term.

"Planned parenthood. Restriction of progeny. Malthusian methods," I translate.

"Yeah. Yeah – I got that, ma'am."

"You see, as a doctor AND a campaigner for women's rights I have a special interest in…"

I give him a succinct summary of the toll of repeated childbirth on the female anatomy and on family finances, of benefits of freeing ourselves from the constraints of female biology, on the rewards of mutually satisfying companionate physical love without fear of pregnancy – within a monogamous marriage of course – and on the ideal of every child being a wanted child. I am faultlessly fluent, because it is not original. I have delivered all this before. Often to a crowd. Occasionally to a heckling crowd.

His eyes widen a touch over his coffee mug as I hit my stride on the iniquity of the Comstock Act, which about ten years ago sent us spinning in the wrong direction.

"Comstock is not only targeting pornography – we'd have no issue with that – he has succeeded in making Malthusian equipment and written descriptions of preventative methods illegal… Means in effect rich men have access to anything and poor women have access to nothing! The middle classes limit their families and the poor are left to… Women worn out by endless pregnancies and thrown into ever greater poverty with each …"

On I go. He sips his coffee and occasionally shifts, uncomfortably, in his seat.

"Four times as dangerous to bear a child as to work in a mine… Women are literally dying for lack of information… Galvanisation of rubber in the late 1830s was a boon to the manufacture of simple and effective Malthusian devices… These can take the form of…"

I run through the most common options. He stands up to go pour himself another coffee. The back of his ears look sort of – pink.

"…And I always tell my patients, there's a special word for couples who rely on rhythm or withdrawal! They're called 'parents'!"

The tips of the ears glow brighter.

I stop. "I'm sorry. I climbed onto my soapbox there. Was I boring you? I suppose women's reproductive health is not, necessarily, a topic of great interest to a man." Blushing again, I add, "…I mean to a never-married man." That was supposed to be a prompt. Nothing. Very casually, raising my cup to cover part of my face, I go on, "Assuming you are – er – "

"Even bachelors," just the trace of a smile as he pours more tea for me and answers my unasked question, "like me – even we can care about other folks' health and some of those other folks be women…"

"Oh, no! I wasn't suggesting otherwise…" I did not mean to. Honestly.

"Not many folk have never lost anyone in childbirth – a friend, a neighbour…" He looks down at his mug. "Someone in the family."

He did lose someone that way. The catch in his voice tells me that. Sister? Neice?

"How long have you been," the eyes are still sad, but he manages a dimple, "…On this particular soapbox?"

"Over five years. Since the first birth I ever attended. It happened during a training visit to an East Side tenement." My hands tighten around the cup they hold. "I delivered a woman's tenth child on a pile of newspapers – all the bedding had been pawned – she begged and pleaded with me for a way to prevent future pregnancies. She begged ME because I was a woman too. I had no idea! None! I only knew how babies were MADE in Latin terms and pen and ink line drawings! As for preventing them – she may as well have asked the cat! Three months later she was admitted to the ward on which I was placed - pregnant again and dying of sepsis brought on by the efforts she'd made to…"

I had utterly failed that woman.

"I made very sure the next time anyone asked for that sort of advice, I had something useful to say."

And I soon found there would be a next time, because hundreds of women were in the same position. No, not hundreds, thousands.

"A good long something to say if that sample you gave me was a typical example!" The smile he gives me over the rim of his mug tells me this is the gentlest of teasing. He is certainly not making fun of the topic.

A pause.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, Mister Smith?"

"If all this stuff is so important to you – and I can see it is – what are you doing out here in a backwater like Arcadia? Why aren't you still in New York doing – well, doing whatever it is campaigning ladies do?"

I give him a rueful grin.

"Because I need to earn a living. My sex, gave me no chance of the hospital post I wanted in the city. My Aunt's influence in this town got me through the door with Doctor Cooper."

He gives a sympathetic shrug. "Would it help if I said, 'their loss!'? It's true enough!"

"Too right it's their loss!" I add a shrug of my own. "To be fair, my age – especially as I appear younger - probably doesn't help. I'll get a few years experience under my belt, hope by that time I no longer look so baby-faced – try again."

In a city hospital, I can maybe do the work I truly feel needs doing. It will be a better base for campaigning too. If I cannot bring enough people round to my point of view on the staff, I can save hard, raise funds and open a clinic to be run by like-minded Doctors in our free time.

But – post first. And saving!

I spent all the money my father left me finishing my training.

(The REAL money, the family money, all reverted back to his closest male relative. Typical, but not worth grumbling over. I have hardly been left to starve in the gutter.)

He glances at the clock. "I guess I'd better go check on Jones, ma'am. Shall I rinse your cup?" That finely formed, tanned hand reaches out to take it. I feel myself blushing AGAIN as I pass it over and our fingers touch. He laughs and shakes his head at me.

"What? What's funny?"

"You are! How can you talk about – about all THAT stuff," he nods at the pamphlet, "…Without turning so much as a hair, then flush up like a rose over a tea-cup?"

A rose! He compared me to – a rose!

I deepen several shades. "I must go get dressed, Mister Smith. I have a busy day. Thank you for the tea." When I pass the glass in the hall, I see he has a problem picking apt similes. He SAID 'rose', but he clearly MEANT 'over-ripe tomato'!

Never mind. At breakfast, both fully dressed and with Ann there, we get back to normal. We both make fun of his coffee as fit only for mice to trot across. He wonders if I can ever manage toast which is neither burnt, nor so pale the adjective 'toasted' needs to be exchanged for 'briefly shown a flame from a safe distance'.

Good.

---oooOOOooo---

When I plod home that same day, weary from a morning of calls and an afternoon toiling among the croupy coughs, colic crying, green-apple runs, pink eye, bumps, bruises and 'malingering unwritten composition-itis' of the local salt mine – sorry, orphanage, (joking!), I find my Aunt's carriage outside.

As I enter the hall, the sound of voices. Ann calls out, "Nell? Is that you? We're all in here with Mister Jones."

I pause before opening the bedroom door, tuck a few strands of loosened hair – the toddlers do TUG so! – back into my bun; ram home a stray pin, straighten my skirt, scrub at the remains of a jam handprint on my blouse with my handkerchief, take a deep breath and go in.

All this makes Aunt Miriam sound far more of an ordeal than she really is. She has a kind heart and genuine loving affection for me. I know that.

I know also she can no longer actually DO anything to me.

Knowing it does not stop her ability to return me to my gawky adolescent self; being escorted to that fearful dancing class on West 35th Street, hearing her frequent reminders to hold my shoulders back, carry my hands gracefully and never, never, never glance at my feet. Or being allowed to join her dinner party to be judged afterwards on how successfully I had engaged in conversation equally with the guests on my left and right, without ever asking a personal question, without ever talking about myself, or allowing a silence to develop. Or being smiled at firmly, in front of a crowded room and asked if I would prefer to give them a German or an Italian song, (the 'neither' option was never offered).

"DO take another of these cookies, Mister Jones. They have extra fruit. I had Cook bake them especially for you – you need to keep your strength up."

"That's real kind of you, ma'am," says the patient, reaching out an eager hand. He DOES look better. Even from this morning he has more colour back.

"…You see Mister Jones, Helen has ALWAYS been such a clever girl. Always had her nose buried in a book from when she was so high. Her father encouraged her. I said all I could to dissuade him, but he wouldn't listen. He let her have her own way and …"

I feel my cheeks glow at hearing myself the topic of conversation. Oh, Aunt Miriam. Don't. I also feel my throat tighten, the way it still always does when my father is mentioned.

I click the door behind me.

Four faces look around. Mister Smith stands, indicates I should have the comfortable chair he has vacated, pulls up a high-back wooden seat for himself.

"Good afternoon, Aunt Miriam," I say.

"Oh, Helen," she replies, sadly. "Just look at you." Slow shake of the head. Big blue eyes reproach me. A tongue clicks.

Wonderful.

"You do look exhausted, Nell," chimes in Ann, sympathetically.

Oh! Thanks, EX-best friend.

"Have some tea. It's hot," Ann soothes, pouring out the proverbial brew that refreshes but does not inebriate. "…And I'm sure Mister Jones will share his booty from Mrs. Hartleman. Cherry or spiced apple?" I re-instate Ann to her previous position at the top of my 'favoured acquaintance' list, take the tea gratefully, but shake my head at the plate of cookies.

Aunt Miriam is still looking at me. I catch her eye fleetingly. She knows what has – not upset me – I am not exactly upset…

Her gaze softens and she leans forward to push back a straggling curl. "I was telling Mister Smith and Mister Jones how very, very proud your father was, Helen, when you were accepted into medical school."

I smile and give her hand a quick squeeze. Like I said before, however much Aunt Miriam and I rub each other the wrong way, I have never doubted she loves me. I hope she knows it is mutual.

"Now, take a cookie, Helen. We don't want you fading away from overwork, do we?"

Fat chance! (Pun intended.) I do take a cookie though. To be strictly accurate I take one of each. Yum! As I lick my lips to capture a stray crumb, Aunt Miriam returns to critical mode.

"I hope you intend to change that soiled blouse before dinn… DO try not to allow your forehead to pucker like that, Helen. I've told you before – you'll get worry lines before your time. Won't she, Mister Smith, won't she, Mister Jones?"

Joshua Smith tactfully answers this only with a smile which both of us can interpret however we like. Thaddeus Jones buries his face in a mug of warm milk (I have prohibited tea and coffee for a few more days - the more he sleeps the better.) and applies himself to another cookie – presumably to build his strength a little further.

"I do worry so about Helen, Mister Smith. I mean, working so hard. It is not natural for a lady. And going out quite alone. She was not brought up to it. I feel I must take care of her interests. I am, you understand, in the place of her mother…"

"I'm sure folk would find it easier to take you for sisters, ma'am."

I blink at him. I also shut my mouth. I had opened it to protest I am NOT a child – have not been for years! – and am perfectly capable of taking care of my own interests. I decide to leave him to handle Aunt Miriam.

"Oh, Mister Smith," flutes Aunt Miriam. "You flatter me!"

He assumes an expression of exaggerated – and dimpled – disagreement.

"I know Helen likes to think she no longer needs my guidance…"

Nope. Oh, sorry. I have been out West too long, obviously! I mean, 'No, I don't'.

"But, feeling as I do – almost in the place of a mother…" she pauses. This is not quite like the usual Aunt Miriam. What on earth is she trying to say?

"It is a sad thing to lose your folks," says Joshua Smith.

The tone is different. I believe he meant it to come out as a simple comment – but – it is not simple. Something in his eyes makes me want to reach over and squeeze HIS hand, the way I did Aunt Miriam's. I do not, of course.

Anyhow, I only really deserve half this empathy. I 'lost' my mother so long ago I do not even remember her. Just a vague image of Nanny holding me up to say 'Have a lovely time, Mama' to someone very beautiful – rather like Aunt Miriam only more so – in a shimmering ball gown and this princess figure blowing me a casual kiss as she headed for the carriage. I remember her scent – but that is because it clung to her things and I recall once creeping into her room and rummaging through a draw full of silk and lace and gauze.

Short silence.

"…Helen takes after our side of the family in colouring – but she is so much her father's daughter – Such a pity she wasted her chances on her come-out – Several MOST eligible offers – Not to compare with her mother perhaps – We Lawrence girls – that was our maiden name, Mister Smith – we were never – I hope you will forgive me – we were never short of eligible suitors… "

"I'm sure it's easy to see why, ma'am."

Oh, he IS smooth. I smother a snirt and, for his and Ann's benefit only, make a soft 'sucking up' noise on my next sip of tea.

"Of course it would have broken mother's heart if we had ever wanted to marry anyone who was not 'quite quite'…"

How well I remember the many warnings I had as I grew up against becoming too fond of anyone who was not - 'quite, quite'. Meaning: well-off, privately educated, able to trace his ancestry back to a point when America was still untroubled by incomers from across the Atlantic.

"And that is what I have always told Helen. I mean…"

Good heavens! She is not warning him off, is she? Maybe. Just a hint. It is a touch premature, as well as presumptuous, surely? It is being gently done if that IS what she is intimating. She clearly likes Mister Smith – likes his charm I mean. As for Mister Jones – who has no idea he is now sporting an endearing milk moustache – she is positively maternal to him. She is chatting away ten to the dozen.

"…Nothing but silly ideas about women's rights and… As if any woman with a brain could not make at least one man vote the way she intended him to! - Brought up in the best society - Then such odd spinster types she mixed with at college - Poor souls, I suppose one has to feel sorry for…"

"Aunt Miriam," I protest. "It is possible for a woman to stay single by choice!"

"Certainly is," agrees Joshua Smith. Perfectly timed pause. "'Course, it don't have to be their OWN choice. It could be that men take a good look, choose not to ask and there they are – single by choice."

This should not tickle me – but it does. I give an involuntary crack of laughter. Unfortunately this coincides with a sip of tea which snorts out of my nose.

"You were telling us what a refined lady your niece is, ma'am," he provokes, raising his own cup with a daintily extended little finger. It does not look funny written down, but it is enough to interrupt my mopping up with another nasal spray of the warm wet stuff.

"Helen, really!" I am frowned at. She turns to the men, "You've let me talk on and on. Now it's your turn. Mister Smith, Mister Jones – what do you do?"

A glance is exchanged. No, make that two glances. One between Joshua Smith and Thaddeus Jones. One between Ann and myself. The one between Ann and me signifies 'Good Luck!' We have not had much success with 'tell us something about yourself' questions. We have been treated to one or two tall tales – obvious tall tales – catching eagles to pluck feathers for Sitting Bull's headdress; being the real life Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn on their way to sue Mark Twain for copyright infringement – I mean, not lies.

"Jones and I like to think we can turn our hands to most things, ma'am."

"So long as it's not too hard on the back."

She is waiting for more. Nothing. "What was your last job?"

"Our last job?" repeats Mister Jones. He mulls. "You could call it – security work, ma'am." Another exchange of looks.

A smile starts on Joshua Smith's face. "Last year we had a real interesting job, ma'am."

He waits, lets us make 'go on' sounds.

"Tracking mountain lions for bounty!"

The words 'mountain lions' are relished as if they were 'man-eating sabre-toothed tigers'.

Aunt Miriam's reaction is most satisfactory.

"Oh, Mister Smith! That sounds so dangerous! Weren't you frightened?"

"Most folk might have been, ma'am, but you see Jones and me – we don't know the meaning of the word 'fear'…"

"Would you like to borrow a dictionary?" I offer.

A twitch of his mouth indicates he appreciated this, but he presses on. "The only time I felt a qualm – just a qualm – was when a cougar had me pinned to the ground…"

"Oh, my!"

"Its fangs inches from my throat…its claws sinking into my shoulders…its hot breath searing my skin…"

"Made me shudder just watching it!" chips in Thaddeus Jones. "I levelled my rifle…"

"Did you shoot it, Mister Jones? Weren't you afraid of hitting your friend?"

"You forget, Mrs. Harlteman – 'fear' is not in Mister Jones' vocabulary," puts in Ann.

"Along with so many other words," caps Joshua Smith.

"I levelled my rifle, ma'am… HEY!" A scowl is delivered to his partner as the penny drops.

"When he noticed a family of tiny cubs, whiskers trembling with terror, watching from the trees. He couldn't kill their Ma and leave them to starve. Jones is far too tender-hearted for that ma'am…"

"Oh!"

"Guess I'm just a big softy, ma'am," accepts Mister Jones, leaving the tale to the master raconteur.

"Jones remembered something he'd read about tackling mad dogs…there he was, his hand down the lion's throat…gripping her tongue…"

On the story goes. Of course Aunt Miriam has realised by now her leg is being gently pulled.

Once it is done – maybe before she can ask more questions – Mister Jones says, "If you don't mind me enquirin', ma'am – what brought you out West?"

"Oh, that's easy Mister Jones – my husband. Mister Hartleman – he was my third – he came visiting New York City on business. We met and – Does it sound foolish for middle-aged people to have a whirlwind romance? If it is – so be it. But maybe as we get older we realise just how short life is and to seize the day…"

"In delay there lies no plenty, huh?" agrees Mister Smith. Genuinely agrees, I think. I blink at the phrase, then remember I walked in on him yesterday to find his nose buried in my Complete Works – I'd brought it out to settle a quotation argument with Ann. Though it would not surprise me to learn he had been dipping into every book I keep here in my room at the Coopers' place.

"Mister Hartleman managed to persuade me that although Arcadia was by no means a large town – his house would give me every, EVERY modern convenience. But, when I realised how far West it was…" Aunt Miriam lowers her lashes, flutters them. "Oh, Mister Smith, Mister Jones you will think me foolish…"

"I can't imagine that, ma'am," reassures Joshua Smith. He leans over to relieve her of her empty teacup and refill it. A flutter of thanks.

"Having lived in New York all my life, I thought the West would be…"

"Wild?" he supplies, with a twinkle and a dimple. "Was the tame reality a disappointment, ma'am?"

Good heavens, his charm is working overtime. Mind you, Aunt Miriam may be approaching fifty, but I realise well enough if it came to a 'winding men around little fingers' contest, she could beat me hollow with both little fingers tied firmly behind her back.

Not that I WANT to wind men round my little finger, you understand!

"How can it be tame, Mister Smith? Not with men like you and Mister Jones wrestling cougars right, left and centre! I thought I might miss the city – and so I do in some ways, however…" She smiles. "I love it here. When Mister Hartleman passed last year…"

Sympathetic murmurs.

"…I thought about returning home. But, this IS home now. And Helen was here…"

I told you my Aunt's influence helped me get this job. I am confident Doctor Cooper has never regretted it – but, yes, she got me through the door.

Like her, I love it here. I love the space. I love the smell of the air. I love the routine of the town. I suppose I am a big fish in this little pond. I am honest enough to admit I love that.

I love feeling – needed.

---oooOOOooo---

I brush my hair in front of the mirror. Though I know it serves no purpose, I cannot break the one hundred strokes habit I was drilled into as a girl.

Ann is already asleep. I have the lamp turned low so as not to disturb her.

I am glad Aunt Miriam liked Joshua and Thaddeus. She may have reservations – so do I – but she likes them.

It should not matter so much whether she likes them or not, but…

We are all getting along so well, I do not want anything to spoil it. Not even waves of disapproval from home.

No. It is more than 'getting along'.

Joshua Smith is…

Well, he's…

You know how it is sometimes when you meet someone you know could be a proper friend – not just a pleasant, cheerful acquaintance – a PROPER friend? The way the conversation rushes along? Everything YOU say as well as everything THEY say seems more interesting than usual? Wittier than usual?

It was like that when I first met Ann.

It is like that with him.

Are you smiling at me?

Oh, all right.

It is not quite the same as when I met Ann.

I hope I am well brought up enough not to let the fact that Joshua Smith is an attractive – extremely attractive – young man, alter my behaviour one iota.

All the same – it does add a nuance.

I wonder if he feels the same? I twist a curl around my hand, let it catch the lamplight. I lift up my chin and smile – try a different angle.

For heavens sake! How old am I? Too old for this adolescent mooning around. I suppose the only excuse is everyone – however sensible – is allowed a few foolish daydreams as they get ready for bed. Enough now, though! I plait my hair quickly and reach for the cold cream.

Obviously we could never be…

I have a career. It would not be easy to combine that with… Though Ann and Charles seem to manage to have the kind of marria…

NOT that I am thinking about THAT. That would be just silly.

But, I would NOT like the main reason it is silly to be that Joshua Smith does not even think I am attractive. I pat a little extra cream onto my forehead, lean forward to see if the warnings about wrinkles are coming true.

Even if there was not my career to think about, we could still never…

Well, our backgrounds are too different. Are they not? Not that background is the only thing that matters. Compatibility of intellect and temperament can cut across… I would be the first to argue merit can be found in the humblest… Although I never pictured myself with a man who was not 'quite, quite'… A lady – a real lady - would never be truly happy with a man who was not 'quite, quite'…

Good heavens.

I blink at myself in the mirror as I screw the top back onto the jar. Despite all my good intentions through the years, the thing I swore would NEVER happen HAS happened.

I shudder.

I have turned into my Aunt.

---oooOOOooo---

_NOTES TO CHAPTER FOUR _

_· Any gynaecological facts Nell refers to have been taken from either: "Out of the Dolls' House" by Angela Holdsworth, or "Devices and Desires" by Andrea Tone_

_· The Women's Suffrage Association is not real. I wanted Nell to be in the National Woman Suffrage Association as it was a more radical and actively campaigning group than the American Woman Suffrage Association, but I did not want to get into the debate over the reasons for the split. Consider the WSA to be 'best of both'._

_· Comstock Laws: _

_The Comstock Act, (ch. 258 17 Stat. 598 enacted March 3, 1873) was a United States federal law which made it illegal to send any "obscene, lewd, and/or lascivious" materials through the mail, including contraceptive devices and information. Twenty-four states passed similar prohibitions on materials distributed within the states. _

_The ban on contraceptives was declared unconstitutional by the courts in 1936, when a federal appeals court ruled that the federal government could not interfere with doctors providing contraception to their patients._


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**ABOUT TWO WEEKS LATER (ABOUT THREE WEEKS AFTER KID'S ACCIDENT) - NARRATED BY KID CURRY**

"And then I thought – couldn't I make the headline kinda – snappier?"

"Uh huh? It's your deal, Joshua."

Part of me is still worrying about being stuck in one place. But most of me is thinking – this is real nice. Dumb as it sounds, despite spending weeks feeling like a hundred horses had taken it in turns to kick me in the…

Um.

Despite feeling like a hundred horses had taken a kick at me, once I knew I was on the mend for sure, these few weeks in Arcadia have been some of the happiest I remember.

"So I pulled down the thesaurus and…"

Sheesh! I wish I'd never found out what a dang thesaurus was. No, strike that. I wish HEYES had never found out what a dang thesaurus was. Between that and 'The Art of the Journalist' he's like a kid in a toyshop.

It's evening. Usually the girls…Sorry! Hush my mouth. Usually the women come join Heyes and me in the parlour once they are done with work for the day.

Did you get that?

The PARLOUR.

First they shifted a table into my room and would come take supper and spend the evening to keep me company. But since last Wednesday I've walked the thirty-two steps to sit in the parlour. I'm on crutches so it's my arms doing the work and I hafta sit on a soft cushion, but still. AND, yesterday I made it upstairs! Did my leg ache afterwards! But, it's worth it because the water-closet is upstairs. I got a chunk of dignity back when I was allowed to let Heyes help me limp and shuffle to a commode. Another chunk when I could make the three or four paces without him, just clinging to the wall. A huge chunk more yesterday.

Er – you probably didn't wanna hear all that.

Sorry.

But, you have no idea how good it feels to be able to go without needing your partner to cover it up, flush it away and scrub out the pan.

Sorry.

Anyhow, THIS evening Ann and Nell have not joined us yet; they've gone to a Ladies Committee meeting.

Their going to some good works Society makes sense. It's what two ladies like them are doing working jobs, beats me. The one thing Ann don't cover when she talks about her husband is how much money he's got. But, you don't hafta be a genius to work out from the rest of what she says that it's enough for her to stay home embroidering baby clothes and picking out nursery furniture from fancy catalogues.

Instead she helps him run the local paper. Hush my mouth AGAIN. She does not HELP him – since that would suggest he is the senior partner. They run the local paper together. Except – he's taken himself off to San Francisco to join his old mentor – whatever THAT is – doing something incredibly brave, principled and heroic – you do get that this is Ann's version, huh? – to bring the shabby treatment of Chinese labour to the notice of the entire world. (It strikes me, most of the world knows how they're treated already and don't give a snap of its fingers, but that's by the by.)

You MIGHT think Ann'd be like any normal gir…woman and feel put out at being left week after week to cope alone in her condition – but no. The only thing riling her is that because she has a baby on the way SHE'S not in 'Frisco too, getting spat at, jostled, threatened and stonewalled by local employers on one side and the unions on the other. She thinks what Charles (that's his name) is doing is wonderful. It's pretty clear she thinks he's wonderful too. This is, I guess, as it should be.

Once Heyes stopped clucking round me day and night like a mother hen with one chick, he got to worrying about us having no money. No. We're used to having no money. Heyes started worrying about leeching on Nell Meredith. She was paying our livery bill (until he sold our horses, 'cos it'll be a good while before I ride again). She was paying our laundry bills – and I'm getting snowy white bed-linen three times a week and running through towels like they're goin' outta fashion. We were getting three squares a day at her expense – and I'm following Doctor's orders and keeping my strength up, so these squares are pretty dang square! And I'm guessing those medicines she's giving me aren't the cheap stuff.

She's never asked for a dime. Now, if I realise Nell Meredith can afford it, Heyes – who can smell money through three foot of tooled steel – sure does.

"That's not the point, Kid," he tells me.

I'm not completely sure what the point is, but I guess Heyes' taste for going straight has reached some higher level, huh?

"I could hand over what's left of the money from the horses."

He says 'what's left' because he's bought a set of clothes and boots for me – since everything I owned except my hat and sheepskin was either stolen with my saddlebags or sheared off me. And he's bought a change of clothes for himself – so he could hand back those tweedy things belonging to Charles Buchanan. 'What's left' isn't much.

"But, then…"

I know. If we part with the 'what's left', we'll have zip. Once the Coopers get back and I'm well enough, we really oughta move outta their place and into a hotel. I'll still need to rest up and we'll run up bills there too. The sheriff's made it pretty dang clear he don't want to see Heyes hangin' around poker tables at the saloons – so the usual method of swelling 'what's left' is off limits. If trouble shows up – and don't it always - we'll be heading for the train station or stage depot and need that 'not much' to exchange for two tickets.

Anyhow, Ann guessed what was bugging Heyes.

Nah. That's a lie.

I told her.

We were just talking – she comes sits with me a lot – and I told her.

I really like her. Oh, I don't mean - Not like that.

I like them both. But, Ann is...

I reckon if my eldest sister hadn't…

All that's beside the point. Where I'm getting to is – after I told Ann, that evening she casually remarked that, though she was coping well enough with editing the paper and keeping up the regular features, where she was really missing Charles was in bringing in quirky news items and new advertisers. She was thinking of hiring someone – just temporary like. She didn't ask Heyes, she let him offer. He gets paid a chunk of the money he brings in – so he don't feel it is just her being charitable.

And, he loves it! He loves it ALL. From setting racks to give the best impact on the page, to getting folk talking, to coming up with five hundred words to make a Bake Sale sound thrilling. Seems he's the best hire Ann's ever made. He sold so much extra advertising space she's having to add in…

Sheesh. I sound like him.

Maybe that's the point. He'd found a job where you get paid for spinning tales and using that silver tongue.

"…finishing with a screamer. That's what we call an 'exclamation mark' in the trade, Thaddeus…"

Oh for Pete's sake!

"I'm opening for…tell me again what a full house beats, Joshua."

Despite the ladies being out, Heyes and I are not alone. Fred Tammett's here. He's the grandson of the lady who comes in daily to keep house here…

She's nice. Ever since I started taking an interest in my food again, she's made it her mission to find out my favourite meals and feed me up.

Fred ALSO works at the paper – errand boy and general dogsbody. He thinks Heyes is great.

So, that's two of them, huh?

Nah. He's a good kid. He's just turned fifteen and we are teaching him poker.

"A full house beats …what I got," responds Heyes. "I fold."

"Me too," I say.

"So – I WON?" Utter delight. He drags our two nickels over.

"Yeah. Course if you'd waited 'til AFTER we'd placed a bet to tell us what you had – you'd have won more than our table stakes."

Fred's grin wavers. Heyes laughs.

"S'orright, kid. You can spend a lifetime learning this game. Let's run through the hands again."

We hear the front door click. Heyes head swivels round and his face lights up the way it used to looking at a safe. Maybe. Maybe it's me imagining things. I hope so.

The parlour door swings open and Nell bounces in.

"That – that – that WOMAN!"

"The vote went against you, huh?" asks Heyes, pulling forward her favourite chair and setting Ann's footstool and cushion in place – Nell says Ann should sit with her feet raised when she can.

Huh? What vote? Mind you, sometimes when she and Heyes are yakking ten to the dozen I stop listening. Half of the stuff they laugh at – well! It just ain't funny! How can it be funny if only folk who've read the same book get the joke? Huh?

"Huh? What vote?" says Nell. Hey! Is she reading my mind? "Oh! That vote. No. That was fine. Good sense prevailed. Didn't it Ann?"

"Yes, Good Sense," smiles Ann, "You did."

"AND," goes on Nell, "part of the credit goes to YOU, Mister Smith. At least half a dozen of the committee had read your article and it swayed them…"

"Your article really, ma'am," says Heyes, modestly. (Modestly? I dunno who he thinks he's fooling!) "I only worked with what you gave me."

"No. No. What I wrote was…" she searches.

"Full of polysyllables, multiple clause sentences and two thousand words too long," grins Ann.

"Well maybe. Whereas what YOU turned it into, Mister Smith was …" Nell searches again. "Pithy," she decides (whatever THAT is). "Pithy AND persuasive."

"You did do an excellent piece, Mister Smith," chimes in Ann.

"I wouldn't say that…" purrs Heyes, like a cat with cream.

"That's EXACTLY what you said, Joshua," chips in Fred. "You said…"

"SO," Heyes interrupts, "…if you got your own way, why the 'That Woman!' exclamation."

"Something else came up," Ann explains. Or rather, don't explain. A pause. Brightly changing the subject, "How has your evening been?"

"Joshua and Thaddeus are teaching me poker," beams Fred.

I see Heyes flash a half-guilty, half 'I've got nothing to be guilty about' look at Nell.

"We've set a nickel limit, ma'am. Just playing for fun."

She looks at him for a moment, then he gets the sweetest smile and she touches his hand. Ann and me – we exchange a glance. I reckon she suspects the same as me. I reckon she hopes SHE'S wrong too. I guess, though she likes Heyes fine, she worries a lady like Nell and one of a pair of penniless drifters who won't talk about their past ain't the best match. Someone, sometime, is gonna get hurt.

"Am I really that much of a dragon? I haven't climbed so far up the moral high ground that I object to a little friendly wager to make a game interesting, Mister Smith."

(Heyes once asked her to call him 'Joshua'. She replied, "Why? Are we engaged and I have forgotten the proposal? Or are you my long-lost brother?" He blinked. She said, "Joke!" But still sticks strictly to 'Mister Smith', 'Mister Jones'. I guess we both now know what first name terms mean for her though.)

"Friendly?" puts in Ann. "I don't call the 'Muhaha' gloat of triumph every time you scoop my quarter off the backgammon board particularly friendly!"

"It's not the way you play the game that matters," grins Nell, "…It's the winning that counts!" She pulls up her chair a touch. "May Ann and I join in?"

"Do you know the rules?" asks Heyes.

"No. But how hard can it be?"

---oooOOOooo---

"Remind me – a straight flush IS one of the strongest hands?" Nell is frowning away at her fan of cards, bottom lip thrust out. "In that case, I raise another nickel."

"Fold."

"Fold."

"Fold."

"Fold."

Heyes picks up the cards she has discarded. "You had…you had NOTHING!" he objects, more than a touch of admiration in his voice.

"Not true. I had four suckers sitting at the table."

---oooOOOooo---

"Are you bluffing, Mister Smith?"

"Do you THINK I'm bluffing, ma'am?" Heyes dimples at Ann. Since we other three folded she's raised twice.

"You see THAT," says Fred, who is thoroughly enjoying his evening, "…That is a real poker face! Am I getting any better at a poker face, Mister Jones?"

"Yeah," I say. "But now every time you have a decent hand you twist your feet round the chair leg, son. You hafta stop with the tells. It's no good just movin' 'em down to the floor."

"It IS a good poker face, Mister Smith," muses Ann. "But I still think you're bluffing."

"Uh huh?" He draws in his breath. "Big pot, ma'am. How MUCH do you think I'm bluffing?"

"What you need, Ann," says Nell, "…Is a stethoscope. Or," wicked twinkle, "…A FRIEND with a stethoscope."

"Why?"

"Cheat!" grins Heyes.

"BECAUSE," carries on Nell, "Mister Smith discovered that when people are lying – and what else IS bluffing? – their heartbeat increases."

I throw a surprised look at Heyes. When did he talk to her about that? What else has he been telling her?

"Is that true?" asks Ann.

"It would be, yes. I'd never really thought about it but, once he told me, I saw he was right." Nell uncurls her feet from under her and darts over to her bag. A metal end-piece is applied to Heyes' front. "Mister Smith, are you bluffing my dear and trusting friend? Are you trying to deprive her of the first decent pot she has had a chance of winning all evening?"

"Hey! I haven't been doing SO badly!" protests Ann. She leans forward. "Is he bluffing?"

"Shush – I'm counting!"

If you ask me, the fact Nell's hand is on his shirt front will have more to do with any pounding going on inside Heyes' chest, but what do I know?! He certainly does not have a poker face any more. He is having difficulty keeping a straight face.

"Hmmmm. Normal. I still wouldn't trust him an inch though! You try, Ann." The earpieces are handed over.

"Are you bluffing me, Mister Smith?" Ann asks, listening hard.

"Would I? Would I bluff my boss?"

Frowning. Ann puts the stethoscope onto Fred. "For comparison," she explains. Back to Heyes. "ARE you bluffing?"

"I'm hurt you can even ask!"

"I fold," sighs Ann.

"Read 'em and weep!" gloats Heyes, scooping up the pot.

"You WERE bluffing!"

"A PRACTISED liar," tuts Nell. "Fibs without turning a hair – or a pulse rate."

She is only joshing, but I think I see a hint of colour come into Heyes' cheeks. I reckon, being here – with nice folk – he wishes it WERE just a joke. Wishes it wasn't so true. Me too. I wish that. Wish I wasn't kinda lying every time I let them call me 'Thaddeus Jones', I mean.

---oooOOOooo---

"It really itches, ma'am."

"That means it's healing. NO scratching."

My Ma always used to say that – if it itches, it's healing.

Heyes and the doc are settling me down – she still checks the dressing each night.

"Is the wound throbbing?"

"No."

Her eyebrows raise. I wriggle.

"Well – a bit. Not nearly so much as yesterday."

She takes a close look. I hardly feel embarrassed any more.

The way she bounces around you'd think she was clumsy, but she isn't. Got a real gentle touch. But confident. I've never had any doubt she knows what she's doing. I'd say she's the best doctor I've ever met – and, boy, have I met a few over the years. It still don't make it right, does it? I'm with her Aunt on that one! I keep that opinion to myself now, though. No way do I want to set Heyes off again on THAT subject. Sheesh! I had to plead 'wound pain' to get him to drop the dang 'how ungrateful can you be, Kid?' lecture.

"I think a couple more days and I'll let you go for a turn outside…"

"Is he ready?" asks Heyes, reverting to mother hen mode. "Just the stairs exhaust him, Doc."

"Tomorrow?" I suggest, ignoring his fretting. I'm fine!

"Tomorrow is NOT a couple of days. Tomorrow is one day." Another close look. "Bring your knee up for me."

I do the best I can without the pain showing on my face. She pushes it just an inch further.

"On our scale of one to ten – how much is that hurting?"

"Three," I say. Then, because I know me putting on a brave act is kinda dumb when she needs me to tell the truth, I change it to, "Nah. Five."

"Uh huh?" She cups both her hands under my foot. "Push down. Push down until the pain is about a seven."

Ow. OW! She cannot be THAT strong, so it must be me being weak as a kitten. Though she says, 'Good' as if I'd managed to push her hands away.

"Now push just with your heel. Good. Now push with the ball of your foot. Good."

I'm glad she thinks it is good! Pathetic is the word I might pick.

"You can go out the day AFTER tomorrow, unless you take a turn for the worse. Don't get excited. You'll be tooling your crutches to the end of the street and back, then having a long sit down in the fresh air. Nothing more. Settle back now."

Between them she and Heyes fix the basket arrangement over my middle to keep off the weight of the covers.

"That journal I ordered has come," she remarks to him. "You know – with the article about fingerprints. I thought tomorrow night we might make an ink pad and do some experiments?"

"Uh huh," nods Heyes, avoiding my eyes.

"Good night, Mister Jones. Good night, Mister Smith." She leaves.

Silence. Heyes unfurls his bedroll with an expression of sterling innocence.

"First stethoscopes, now fingerprints?" I remark. "You two sure have a lot of interests in common."

"She's a doctor, Kid. It's hardly surprising she has a stethoscope. And fingerprints…" He starts to unbutton his shirt. "They just came up. She's interested in science – she'd been reading about them and…"

"And when you'd done telling her all about panning for gold, you filled her in about clearing Jim Stokely," I finish. "Why don't you just publish a 'Life and Times of Heyes and Curry' in that dang paper for her to read?"

"Sarcasm don't suit you, Kid. Besides, I didn't tell her ALL about that winter out at Clarence's mine or ALL about the Henderson business. We were just…" Pause. "She knows I've touched a stethoscope before and found out something about heartbeats when folk lie. She knows I read 'Life on the Mississippi' and made a useful suggestion to a sheriff. Big deal. Hardly a full biography, is it?" He goes over to wash. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "For Pete's sake Kid, take that look off your face. It's not as if I tattooed 'wanted' on our foreheads. I've just been enjoying some intelligent conversation with someone who…" Pause. "It's not as if I meet many folk who…" Pause. "You can't get to know someone without saying SOMETHING. You have to share SOMETHING."

The very fact he hasn't come back at me with some flip remark, the fact he is defending himself, deepens the worry I have had ever since I could worry about anything other than my hip.

I open my mouth to…

To say what? That there's no point getting to know Nell Meredith?

Since I have confided a few childhood memories to a sympathetic Ann Buchanan, that would be kinda rich. Heyes is right. You can't get to know anyone without sharing SOMETHING.

I know I only feel brotherly and…is 'patiently' a word?…'patiently' towards these two women, though. Does he?

I shut my mouth. He finishes undressing, climbs into his bedroll, reaches over and turns down the last lamp.

I stare into the darkness, thinking.

Since his breathing does not grow heavier the way it does when he's asleep, I suspect Heyes is doing the same.

After what seems like ages I ask, "You really like her, huh?"

No answer. Perhaps he IS asleep? Perhaps.

I decide to believe he is anyhow.

---oooOOOooo---


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

**A WEEK LATER - NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

Heyes and me, we prop up the bar at one of the local saloons.

Sounds like old times, huh? Not quite. In fact, the bar is propping up both me and the crutches at my side. My leg aches after walking the four streets here. I made it though. A little further and a little more weight on the hip every day. Last night when Nell cupped my foot and ordered me to push, she went over. She brushed aside my apologies with a delighted grin, as Heyes helped her up.

I'm allowed two beers before we go back for supper. The chances of Heyes disobeying 'doctor's orders' are zero, so I make this second one last. To be fair, she's right. After weeks on milk and barley water, the first beer was exhilarating. This one is making me smile, goofily, at the world. A third might land me on my butt if a crutch hits a wet spot.

Quite a few folk have come up to talk to Heyes. He's been making himself known – newspaper-wise – all over town. It is no surprise to me he seems to have become one popular fella. What DOES surprise me is that his eyes hardly even stray to the poker game going on in the corner.

"Don'tcha miss it, Heyes?" I nod over at what I mean.

"Nah. Well – not so much as you'd think. Guess I've been too busy. Besides, I've had other things to do in the evenings, huh?"

The evenings have been – nice. Quiet maybe, but – nice.

"Seems a shame we hafta move out," I say.

The Coopers come back the day after tomorrow. So, next week, does the wonderful 'Charles'. I musta heard everything there is to hear about Charles, including the non-sappy bits of his letters home. I know there ARE sappy bits because from pages and pages of writing all we hear is about two sheets worth and sometimes Ann sneaks them out when she thinks no one is looking and goes all pink.

"Yeah," agrees Heyes.

"It's been… Is it the beer talking, or have the four of us felt kinda like a family?"

"It's partly the beer, but there's a lotta truth in there, Kid."

"Still, nothin' lasts forever, huh?"

Pause. "Guess not."

"I'll rest up at the hotel for a couple more weeks, then we can leave."

Pause. "Guess so." He don't sound too happy about it.

I take another drink. Neither am I.

"Though, this is good a place as any. We could stay. Don't make much difference to the Governor where we are, so long as we stay outta trouble. We can see if this Charles fella is happy to keep you on. Why not if you're sellin' enough to earn your keep? Can't believe he's a mean type, huh? Ann's bound to slow down, an' – an' all this talk about carryin' on workin'…"

Yup. Two beers are definitely enough!

"That's just her an' Nell spoutin' their 'a woman can do anythin' a man can' guff. She'll never stick to that once the baby comes. Nah! She'll wanna stay home cooin' over the cradle…HE'LL need someone takin' up the slack same as she did! As for me – once I'm feelin' strong again – why don't I go see the mill foreman? I know we didn't show any great talent for working with wood back in Wickenburg – but, sheesh – it's gotta beat runnin' from posses!" Another swallow of beer. "We could stay. Why not?"

He looks at me. If he IS sweet on Nell Meredith there's an easy answer to 'why not?' If he's not – or only 'sweet but, 'sheesh, she's just a girl, I'll get over it soon enough' sweet' – there's no real answer to 'why not stay?'

"Yup," he says. "Why not stay?"

Okay.

"Et in Arcadia ego, huh, Kid?"

Huh?

"You gotta stop with the reading', Heyes. Her books are makin' you – weird." I drain my glass. "Gimme a decent dime novel any day of the week! Least they gotta plot!"

I become aware of a stir in the saloon. Some sniggers. A call from some mill-hand who has taken one too many. "Don't be shy, gorgeous! Come on in!"

I look over to the bat wing doors. It's Ann! She must have been trying to attract our attention from outside and has now ventured in.

"C'mon, brown eyes! Come sit on my lap! We can talk 'bout what comes up!"

More sniggers.

"HEY!" I protest, glaring at him.

"Let's go," says Heyes.

"Did you hear what he…?"

"What you gonna do? Hit him with your crutch? C'mon, Sir Galahad."

I give another glower at the loud mouth as I limp away. Heyes is right, though. I cannot swing a punch and there's not much point being fast on the draw if you can't reach without falling over.

"You shouldn'ta gone in there," I grumble, as soon as we're out in the street.

"Oh, I'm glad I've found you. It's the third saloon I've tried and I've yet to hear anything approaching an original line! Something's happened. Didn't you hear the excitement?"

"No. Well – we heard some shoutin'."

Once I'd propped myself against the bar, I wasn't moving for a shout or two out in the street.

"You can't go back to the Coopers – Nell has new patients. I wanted to save you the walk back, Mister Jones; because you'll have to come have supper at my place and it's in quite the opposite direction – I've brought your things – I just hope I've packed all you need – It was all so hurried – I'm not going too fast am I? I mean the pace – not the talking. I know I'm talking too fast. It's so silly of me, but I feel so…"

"Er, no ma'am. Leastways – how far is it?"

"Just to the far corner and left. Mister Smith knows. You won't mind a cold supper? Well frankly, it's all the same if you do…"

"What's happened?" Heyes interrupts her. "I mean – who's sick?"

"Uncle Bill brought in two prisoners – outlaws – both injured. Oh, Mister Smith, I was there. It was SO awful. I wanted to help, but they wouldn't let me stay. I wouldn't have been much use anyhow. Nell pushed me out before I could really see – she knows I'm squeamish – and there's the baby to…" She flushes, drops her voice, embarrassed. "There was so much blood."

"Could I…?" starts Heyes, "I helped with…" He nods at my leg.

"They won't let you in. They've got extra deputies drafted – not just on the doors, out in the street – stopping anyone going near. Since both the men they've caught are injured, I can't imagine what all the precautions are for! The poor souls can hardly escape…"

"They'll be thinkin' other gang members might come spring 'em," I say. Then, realising this makes me sound a touch too familiar with the ways of outlaws, I add, "'Course I'm only guessin'."

"No, that makes sense! How clever of you, Mister Jones."

I avoid meeting Heyes' eye.

"Uncle Bill might let someone go help Nell – but the other men wouldn't – I daresay he'll do what he can for her – THEY didn't even want to be in the surgery – THEY wanted the doctor fetched to the jail – But, Uncle Bill says it doesn't matter WHAT anyone has done, they're still entitled to decent medical treatment to let them make it to a fair trial – and the equipment is at the surgery…"

"What other men?" interrupts Heyes.

"I'm not sure. It was all so confused and they hurried me out so fast. I suppose they must be other sheriffs – or if they're out tracking down outlaws from town to town, would that make them Marshalls? I don't know."

Heyes and I exchange a glance. Other Sheriffs? Marshalls? He looks – I dunno. Guilty is the wrong word, but it's not far off. Or maybe – reminded? We've both settled into a routine here and now he's been reminded why we CAN'T settle. Anyhow, he don't say another word about trying to help.

"Uncle Bill and they were arguing… I don't know what about, but you could tell there was no love lost. And when they saw Nell! Well! They looked her up and down as if she had two heads, then one of them sneered – I can't use ANY word except 'sneered' – at Uncle Bill – 'What the Sam Hill do you call this?' – and he drew himself right up and said 'I call this Doctor Meredith and unless you want to find yourself dumped on your butt out of my town – so do you!'"

I hope nothing ever happens so we hafta go up against Sheriff Fraser, 'cos after that I think Heyes might just be on his side, not ours.

We walk – or limp – on in silence for a pace or two.

"We'll have to make a story of it, Mister Smith. But, I'm torn. It's not really fair to exploit my connection to the Sheriff – is it? Or Nell." Pause. "Can I leave it to you to gather what facts you can?

He gives her a quick smile which she can take as a 'Yes' if she wants. It will not be 'yes' though, will it? Not unless he gets a look at these strangers before they get a look at him.

"I wonder who they are?" she says, "…The outlaws, I mean."

Yup. So do I!

"I'm sure tomorrow will do, Mister Smith. I didn't get the impression anyone was going anywhere quickly – and the edition is three days away." Pause. "We could pull it forward." Pause. "I don't sound heartless, do I? It is my job." Pause. "Not tonight though." Pause. Her voice wobbles. "There was so much blood – and I just left her."

We are there. Her hand shakes as she tries to fit it in the lock. Heyes does what I want to do; he puts his arm round her shoulder and gives her a hug.

Then he takes the key from her. "One, you could never sound heartless. Two, you didn't just leave her; you were thrown out, huh? Three, don't fret over the Doc – she knows her job. Four, tell me where the kettle is because – forget the dang paper –the only thing you're doing is putting your feet up and having some hot sweet tea. You've had a shock."

She opens her mouth to protest, but I forestall her, "Do as you're told, the way I hafta. Don't forget – he's naggin' for two."

---oooOOOooo---

There wasn't even any cold supper. Not until Heyes went out and fetched it. Not that Ann or Heyes had much of an appetite. He's worrying. Well, so am I, but I guess he's worrying about Nell as well as 'Has someone we know hit town?' Well, again, so am I. Worrying about Nell that is.

It's getting late. No, it IS late.

Ann thinks Nell will join us here once she's done. WHY she thinks that is beyond me. I'm not saying she's wrong. Wouldn't surprise me if she's right. I just don't follow the feminine logic.

A knock. Heyes puts down his coffee cup and darts to the door. I see his face fall as soon as he reaches the spot where he can see who's out on the porch. So I guess I know who it AIN'T, huh?

It's Fred Tammett. He SAYS he's come round 'cos his grandmother says to bring over milk, bread and butter 'cos it stands to reason there won't be any for breakfast if Mrs. Buchanan expected to still be away. It's pretty clear he's a willing volunteer though and that's why he didn't wait 'til morning. What he's REALLY come for is to find out all he can about the outlaws and to plead to be included in any excitement tomorrow.

"Are you gonna interview 'em, Joshua? Can I come?"

"That'd be an 'almost certainly not' and a 'definitely not'."

"Awww, why?"

"'Cos even if the Sheriff said I could talk to them – which he won't – and the doc said I could talk to them – which she won't – why the Sam Hill would they want to talk to me?"

He does NOT add – 'And 'cos I won't be going near them in case they look all too familiar.'

"They might wanna talk about their – their exploits!" The lad's eyes are wide.

Heyes cannot help grinning at the word. "Exploits?"

"Ain't you heard who they are?" To Ann, "Didn't they tell you who they were, ma'am?"

We know, from her, the two fellas brought in were in no state to tell anyone anything. I guess she don't wanna go into details again, 'cos all she says is, "No. Nothing."

"You ain't HEARD?"

He's itching for someone to ask and, like I said, he's a good kid, so I oblige.

"Who are they?"

I reckon we both cross our fingers for a pair of unfamiliar names.

Fred swells up for the delivery. "This town - this VERY town is holding," dramatic pause, "Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry."

Well, look on the bright side. Our pole-axed faces have made Fred one happy young news-giver.

"Oh," says Ann, sounding very unsure (I TOLD you she was clever. Or – did I? I guess that's part of what I meant when I said she reminded me of my sist…never mind.) "…Aren't they very famous?"

"The most successful outlaws in the history of the West!"

"I can't believe the pair I saw were – It sounds rather unlikely, Fred. Aren't Heyes and Curry somewhere in Wyoming? From whom did you hear it was them?"

"I heard it from George an' he heard it from…" George is about the same age as Fred. Where he heard it from is not convincing. Not that WE need convincing it ain't true. "It's all over town! It's Heyes an' Curry. They…"

Oh, sheesh. He is coming out with all kinds of stuff – making us sound like something out of a dime novel.

"I'm not sure you should sound so – so approving, Fred," reproves Ann. "Being successful at robbery with violence is hardly something to be admired. And I still can't believe it's them. Though," she sips her coffee, "…It would be a very good story if it were."

"It MIGHT be them? Huh? It's not impossible? They've deputies stoppin' folk even goin' near – they've gotta be SOMEONE! And, Heyes and Curry AIN'T violent! They never shot anyone…"

"Fred! You read too much cheap fiction!"

"They didn't," I chip in. I cannot help it; I want Ann to know. "They never shot anyone and they didn't rob – well, they didn't rob ordinary folk. It's a fact."

"It's not IMPOSSIBLE it's them," repeats Fred, stubbornly. "Is it, Joshua?"

"Well, how could it be impossible?" Heyes muses. "'Impossible's kinda a big word. Not many things are 'impossible' in this world."

Oh, Heyes.

Ann pours Fred some coffee and cuts him a slice – a very generous slice – of the cake Heyes fetched back as part of the supper shopping. Through mouthfuls of crumbs he tells us more about the 'exploits' of the most successful outlaws in the West. Ann lets him talk without further discouragement. Fred's not dumb, nor is he a child. He knows – really – the 'exploits' are mainly fiction. He knows – really – the captured outlaws are – probably – not the famous Heyes and Curry. He's just close enough to childhood to still hope for the most exciting outcome and, if it's make-believe, to enjoy it while it lasts. He's not thinking of the reality of captured men – injury – pain - fear – blood; he's not thinking of prison – year after year after year after year of life slipping by in a cell; he's not thinking of – of the noose.

And, that's as it should be.

Someone who has just turned fifteen should not be thinking of that. If I'd been able to be more like…

When you're fifteen you SHOULD be allowed to – to…

It's the way WE were that's wrong. Not Fred.

A long time passes before he says, "Are you tired, ma'am? Should I go?"

"No," Ann smiles. "I'm fine. Cut yourself more cake."

Another knock at the front door. This time it clicks opens before Heyes can get there. His face tells me who it is before she comes into the parlour. Sheesh, she must be dead beat. I glance at Heyes; his mouth tightens in concern.

"Nell!" exclaims Ann, "…Come in, the coffee's hot. What…?"

Heyes pours it. She takes the cup. His hand and hers touch. Their eyes meet, hands still touching. She gives him a shaky smile as 'thank you'. He releases the cup.

"I'm not stopping. I've done all I can for now. Half an hour won't hurt. I'm going back then. I came for …At least I SAID I was coming here for a bath…" She opens her coat. You can kinda tell she's been wearing a full apron, but around where it covered she's – she's splattered. Was it like that with me? She gives a wry smile. "There are SOME advantages to being female. The Sheriff didn't like to say, 'Go bathe upstairs' with the house full of strange men. What I really wanted was a walk in the fresh air and to get away from…"

She's …

I dunno. She's not shaking and she's not close to tears. But she's…

"The men who brought them in. They were so, SO horrid!"

"The marshalls?" asks Ann.

"They AREN'T marshalls! They're not lawmen at all. Not really. They're bounty hunters…"

Great. Our favourite profession.

"Matt Ridley and – er – Somebody Bowen…"

The name means nothing to me. I shoot a glance at Heyes. Poker face, but a new gloom in the eyes. Whoever Matt Ridley is, Heyes knows him.

"They didn't CARE! I mean, sure, one can argue criminals must be caught – one can even argue if they get hurt in the process, it goes with the territory. But, I don't believe for a moment the injuries on those boys were self defence or – or the result of a 'stop or I shoot' warning – or anything like that! It was cruel – senseless! And, they just didn't CARE! They sneered at Sheriff Fraser for bringing them to me! Why patch them up, just to swing from a rope's end? Mind you…"

She's pacing up and down, words tumbling out, voice rising in what sounds like anger.

"…THAT is a good question! I've been asking myself THAT! I asked the Sheriff if they were likely to hang – he says that's for a judge to say, not him…"

"If it's Heyes and Curry, they won't hang 'em, ma'am. Just give 'em twenty years," pipes up Fred.

I like the 'just'!

"And he told Ridley that the wanted posters say 'Dead or Alive'. You're supposed to pick one! Not bring them in half and half!" Her brow furrows, she turns to Fred. "What?"

"The outlaws, ma'am. Was it Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry?"

"Who? Oh, yes – I know who you mean. Why should it be them?"

"Because, that would be exciting," says Ann, "A pair of outlaws; one dark, one fair. Fred and his friends have been adding two and two together and making an exciting five. ."

"You must know their names, ma'am, if you were treatin' 'em."

"One managed to tell me his name." Her voice dips. She's remembering whatever she's just been through. "Jed."

My mouthful of coffee goes down the wrong way. Spluttering and red in the face I am banged on the back by a helpful Fred.

That was kinda unexpected. Still, 'Jed' is not SO unusual. If one of 'em answered to 'Hannibal' that would be something to choke over!

"Jed is Kid Curry's real name!" Fred informs us all, grinning in delight. "And you said bounty hunters brought 'em in. So – they must've had a price on their head, huh? There's $10,000 apiece on Heyes and Curry."

He looks, hopefully, at Nell. Silence. She's not focused on us. She's thinking about 'Jed' – who 'managed' to say his name and his partner who, I guess, didn't. I think about them too. Poor saps.

"Was he blond and blue eyed, ma'am?"

She gives herself a shake. "Huh? Sorry?"

"Was he blond, ma'am? Like Kid Curry?"

"I think Doctor Meredith's tired, Fred," says Ann, mildly. "And, I'm sure your grandmother will wonder where you are."

Seeing Fred's face fall, as he gets up and reaches for his coat, Nell offers, "He was fair. Not so blond as Mister Jones – but, yes, fair-haired. I'm sure the man I treated was too young to be Kid Curry, though. Hasn't he been an outlaw since the early 70s?"

"He must LOOK young, ma'am." Fred is reluctant to let go. "Why else call him 'Kid', huh? What about the other fella? He WAS dark?"

"I think you should let the doc drink her coffee and go up for her bath, Fred," says Heyes, firmly.

"DarkER. DarkISH. He couldn't – didn't tell me a name." Her mouth twists. I've never seen her upset like this; upset and trying to hide it. She sees Fred about to deliver another question and her knuckles whiten. If she grips that cup any tighter it'll crack. "If he WAS Hannibal Heyes, he isn't now. He died. Died right there in front of me. While I was…" She stops.

"Oh, Nell!" sympathises Ann.

That shut Fred up. He starts to button his coat. But 'just turned fifteen' is not an age to stay shut up long. He tries one final question, "Did he say anything – I mean anything that might be a clue?"

"Yes." Her face is bleak as winter. "He said, 'Please don't let me die. I don't wanna die. Please. I'm scared. Please let me live. I'm so scared, ma'am. Please." She puts down her cup and walks straight towards Heyes like a pin heading for a magnet. "Oh, Joshua…" Heyes steps forward, opens his arms and wraps them tight round her, as she leans against him, face buried on his chest. I don't think either of them thinks about what they're doing. It just comes natural as breathing. "He was squealing in pain. Terrified. Begging me to help. And I let him die. I hurt him and hurt him and hurt him – and then I let him die."

Heyes makes soft shushing sounds. Holds her closer and closer. Rocking her like a child.

"I've lost patients before. But, not like that. Not right in front of my face. Not while I was working on them. He was hurt so bad. I should have - It wasn't the injuries I could see. Couldn't have been. They must have beaten him until – It must have been something internal. I should have…"

"You tried your best." He's talking to the top of her head. His lips are nearly in her hair. "No one could have done more. No one. None of us hafta have been there to know that."

"Trying your best doesn't count! There ARE no marks for trying! I should have…" Her nose burrows into Heyes' shirt. The voice muffles. "There was nothing I could do. And, now – when I get back – once his partner comes round from the anaesthetic, I'll have to tell him. It's not fair to leave it to anyone else! I have to… I let him die!"

"You saved one life, huh? You saved 'Jed'."

A nod. "I'll pull him through. He not use the arm again. Not properly. Not after what they did. But, I'll pull him through. Then, while he's still grief stricken – he can hang. Or rot in a cell. So, what's the point?"

"That's not your fault – is it? You can only…"

Her head comes up. She seems to take in that she's being hugged and that it isn't – well, in the circumstances I can't see even her aunt could object – but all the same, she pulls away. Struggles. I don't think Heyes realises how tight he's holding her.

"No! Let me go!"

He releases her at once. "Sorry, I…"

"I mean don't comfort me, Mister Smith. I don't deserve it. This is part of my job, I should cope. Besides, believe me, you don't want to get too close. Whoever they were – famous or not – they were filthy, crawling with lice. It'll be a miracle if I haven't picked them up. I'll go bathe."

"Leave the bathroom door unlocked," says Ann, "I'll bring you another coffee up. And I'll bring you something of mine to change into."

Nell nods. At the door, she pauses, "I'm so – SO angry! Angry with the men who did this! Angry we run our law on – on greed. Angry with myself for letting him… AND, angry with him! With both of them! If they hadn't picked this life – he'd be alive now. Was the lure of easy money worth THIS? Throwing your life away at… He can't have been much more than twenty-three, twenty-four!"

"They might not have exactly 'picked' the outlaw life," I say. That's not true though, is it? I'm not talking about THEM and it's not true. It's one of those almost half-truths I wanna believe.

She looks at me for a second, her eyes soften. I get a tired smile. "Well, Mister Jones, I won't argue. I suppose I should follow your example and not be so ready to throw the first stone." She goes.

---oooOOOooo---

It's about half an hour later. Nell bathed, changed, and Heyes walked her back to the end of her street. We've told Ann we won't impose on her – we'll move into the hotel. After all, it's only a day earlier than we planned.

"You know this Matt Ridley?" I ask, once the front door has shut behind us.

"Uh huh," grunts Heyes.

"We're not goin' to the hotel, are we?"

"Can't risk it. Where else can he stay? Besides – what am I gonna do tomorrow? Go nose around and find out all the facts for the paper? I can't – can I? I can't even go out once he's walking around." A pause. Heyes' voice is – I dunno – empty, when he carries on. "I memorised all the trains, Kid, just in case. There's one leaves at midnight heading West. We'll take that."

"Did you – did you say anythin' to the doc? When you walked her back?"

"Yeah. I said I'd see her tomorrow. I tell lies, Kid. I'm a liar. You know that."

"But…" I meet his eyes. He looks miserable.

More miserable than I've seen him for…

Forever.

I find I've nothing to say, I close my mouth.

What else could he tell her?

When Ann said 'I'll see you tomorrow' to me, I – Well, I already knew that wasn't real likely and I didn't say a word. I let it pass. I guess I even nodded.

What else can either of us do?

We can't say we've been offered a job. Heyes HAS a job and I'm fit for nothing yet.

We can't say we've had a telegram calling us away. When we arrived at Ann's for supper we were planning to stay in Arcadia for at least a few more weeks. She knows that.

And we can't tell the truth because…

No. No, I won't gloss over it.

We can't tell the truth because we're both liars.

Lying is the life we picked.

---oooOOOooo---

**END OF PART ONE**


	7. Chapter 7

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER SEVEN - ABOUT THREE WEEKS LATER - NARRATED BY KID CURRY**

"Sure is one wet Sunday."

Nothing.

"Pity. I'da liked to ride out to the lake. Maybe do a little fishin'."

Nothing.

"Good night last night, huh? Won enough to make it an evening well spent – not enough to get anyone riled." I give a final polish to my gun. Even I can't clean it any more. The dang thing is bouncing light around the room like a mirror. I slip it back into the holster – also buffed to a high shine - hanging over the back of the chair.

Uh huh.

What now?

My boots and saddlebags already gleam.

"Fancy a beer?"

Nothing.

"Heyes!"

"Huh?"

"Fancy a beer?"

A shrug. "Nah. You go if you like."

Nah. I don't really fancy a beer neither. I just fancy moving. Dang weather.

"Want me to clean your gun?"

Silence.

"Heyes!"

"Mmmm?"

"Are you gonna sit starin' at raindrops runnin' down that dang window all morning?"

"I'm reading."

"You are NOT readin'! You haven't turned a dang page for an hour. AND, you've read the print off that dang book anyhow. You're broodin'. You've been broodin' ever since we left…"

"I'm not brooding – I'm thinking."

"Pfffttt! I've eaten eggs from creatures less broody'n you!" He ain't even listening. Not properly. "You're no fun at all any more, Heyes, y'know that? Ever since you started broodin' over that girl…"

"Girls play with dolls. She's a woman."

Hey! That's exactly what SHE shut me up with once!

Heyes realises he gave himself away, there. He presses on quickly. "And I'm NOT brooding. I'm thinking." He turns to me. "You're right – we did pretty good last night. We've done pretty good for a few nights, huh? This town and the last place?"

"Uh huh." I give a rueful grin. "Can't believe it's us havin' a run of luck. Must be two other fellas wearin' our hats."

"We've got a stake together?"

I shrug. We haven't been THAT lucky. I'm not complaining. It's a dang sight more'n we usually have! Just, hardly 'a stake'.

"I've been thinking…"

"Yeah, you said." I pick up my hat, start to brush it. I'm not sure exactly what's coming – but, I'm guessing I won't like it.

"D'you reckon we oughta go back and clear your doctor's bill? Pay for that crutch we stole."

"Nope."

"Kid! She saved your life! Now we have a little cash, don't you wanna go back and settle up?"

"Nope." I glance at him. "I've no objections to wrappin' the money real safe, going to the depot tomorrow and mailin' it." I think for a moment. "With a real nice thank you letter and apology for runnin' out like that." I grin. "Well, in my case, limpin' out like that."

Heyes stares at a knothole on the floor. "I oughta give her book back."

It's the one in his hand. He didn't mean to take it. He'd borrowed it and when our stuff was thrown together it ended up in his bag. Like I said, he's practically read the print off the page.

"Mail that too. The U.S. mail is the one of the prides of this great country!"

My turn to receive no answer.

"Heyes I know you…"

I stop. What do I know? He hasn't said anything.

I don't know nothing.

I guess.

I'm not sure WHAT I guess – but, whatever it is, it's a first for Heyes.

While I've been with him anyhow.

I suppose he musta been dumb enough to join the rest of us, at least once, between fifteen and twenty and fallen in…

I stop the thought. If I don't say it – it ain't happening.

I start again. No teasing, just quiet and straight. "Heyes, however much you'd like to see her – what's the point? It can't…"

"Who said I wanna see her? I just thought – hey – won't SHE wanna see YOU, Kid? Talk about a miraculous recovery! She'll…"

I don't want to say the wrong thing. But…

"It can't do any good Heyes. However much you like her. However much she might like you – what can happen? She's got 'marriage or nothing' written all over …"

"Hey! I never even THOUGHT…" He cuts off his angry outburst, stares at the knothole, then looks up. "D'you think she did – y'know?"

"No." I hold his eyes. "If she liked anyone, it was Joshua Smith. And he don't exist. Remember?"

More staring at the floor. He knows I'm right. This is Heyes. Self-preservation is his middle na…

He looks up with that 'I'm gonna keep repeating my idea until your ears bleed and you give in' smile.

"We could just pay a friendly visit. Settle our bill. Hey! Maybe Ann's had her baby? Don't you wanna be civil? Go give our congratulations?"

Silence.

"We don't hafta worry 'bout Matt Ridley. There was a report from the trial of Jed Butler in yesterday's paper. It was held out in…"

Ah. So it ain't just his new interest in the newspaper business making Heyes grab any journal he can get his hands on these days. He's been waiting.

"…Y'know – the county town. Ridley was in court giving evidence and he'll be off to spend his bounty somewhere a mite livelier than Arcadia, huh?"

Silence. I have nothing to say.

More quietly, "I'm going, Kid. You don't hafta come. No hard feelings."

That's that then. I inhale deeply, square my shoulders and look him straight in the face. "Which train are we takin'?"

And, you know what? If it wasn't for Heyes being - whatever – I'd like to go back, too.

---oooOOOooo---

The next morning, on the train, I hafta listen to Heyes trying to convince me going back to Arcadia isn't a dumb idea. I don't get to say much. Since Heyes could argue black's white when he's talking up a storm, you probably knew that without me telling you, huh?

"We go back, we say 'hello', she gets to see you walking around good as new. What's wrong that?"

Nothing wrong with THAT. It's the rest.

"Arcadia's a nice quiet town, the kinda town we like. Just a friendly visit, Kid… Doesn't hafta be any more than, does it?"

Yeah, right.

"I thought we once agreed, Heyes – we never turn a lady into a 'good friend'."

He pauses.

"Yeah, but look at this logically, Kid. Let's suppose – just for the sake of argument – your suspicions are right and I've a soft spot for the doc. I'm not saying that's true – but let's suppose it - hypothetical like…"

Hypothetical? I guess he looked it up and it means 'plain as the nose on your face', huh?

"What possible outcomes does that give us? I see a couple straight off…"

Oh, sheesh. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe the train'll get held up.

"We go back and in five minutes flat it's obvious she's never given me so much as a second thought. Why should she, huh? That hug I got on the last night – she was upset; probably didn't mean a thing. She'd probably laugh in your face if you suggested she'd be interested in someone like me. She can do better'n me, huh?"

"Sure," I agree.

"Yeah, she…"

"She could hardly do worse," I agree some more.

"Yeah, she…"

"Even if you weren't wanted, you'd still be no catch. I can see that and the doc's a dang sight smarter'n me, huh?"

"Yeah – HEY!"

"A woman like that could get someone with looks, charm, brains, money, prospects. Why settle for zero outta five?"

"I dunno, Kid. I was standing next to you mosta the time. You gotta allow that woulda made ME look good by comparison."

I grin and decide to call that one a draw, which ain't bad against Heyes.

"Scenario two," pushes on Heyes.

Scenario? It's that dang thesaurus! Every day's 'Big Word Day' now.

"She's given us a second thought or two – and none of 'em are good because she's mad as fire we ran out without saying goodbye. And – quite right too!"

I keep my arms folded and the 'Is zat so?!' disbelief on my face, but – perhaps he's right. I can't really see Nell Meredith being a gal who you can 'treat mean to keep her keen'. Though, you never know with women.

"Scenario three, still assuming I've a soft spot for the doc – and we're still hypothetical here - it was probably brought on by being thrown together digging that bullet outta you, Kid. Maybe the situation threw a romantic light over her. I go back, take another look - wonder what all the fuss was about, end of story."

Hmmm? Maybe. I mull on that for a second. Yeah, maybe.

If I'd ever pictured Heyes falling for anyone – which woulda been a big if – I'd have had my money on someone a lot less keen on laying down the law and, to be honest, a mite better looking than the doc.

---oooOOOooo---

**ARCADIA - TUESDAY**

"We'd like to see the doctor, ma'am," says Heyes.

"Take a seat, gentlemen. He'll be free in a few minutes."

We arrived late last night. This morning, all bathed and barber shaved – plus haircut and bay rum for Heyes - we went to the surgery, knocking at the front not going round the back to the house entrance. We don't recognise the young woman who let us in; I guess it might be one of Doc Cooper's daughters. His eldest girls are – nineteen and twenty was it? – which'd be about right.

"It was Doctor Meredith we came to see, ma'am."

Heyes gets a surprised and not particularly approving look. I guess – in fact I know, because Ann told me – some young men think it's funny to ask to see the lady doctor and then present her with a 'bet you've never seen anythin' quite like that before, huh?' show and tell.

"Doctor Meredith is out on rounds…"

"Off you go now! And keep the weight off it as much as you can." The door of the consulting room opens and an affable looking man bustles out a boy with a bandaged ankle and an anxious looking mother. We touch our hats as she passes. "Ah, more patients, Lizzie? No rest for the wicked! Who's first gentlemen?"

"We're together," says Heyes, stepping forward.

"Together?" repeats Doctor Cooper, but he ushers us into his room cheerfully enough. "A two-fer, huh? What seems to be trouble? I have to say you both look healthy enough."

"We are, but a coupla months back Mister Jones," Heyes nods at me, "…was anything but. He was a patient here – it was while you were away, Doc. Miss Meredith looked after him and we had to leave kinda sudden. We've come to settle our unpaid bill." He pulls a roll of notes from inside his jacket.

Doctor Cooper smiles, "Come to pay your bill? Sounds good!" He pops his head through the door, "Lizzie – could you bring me the account books for May?" As he turns back, "Jones? Jones? Would that be Thaddeus Jones?"

"Uh huh."

"It's a pleasure to see you looking so well, Mister Jones. My partner told me all about your case. Any residual pain?"

"The odd twinge. Nothing to speak of, now."

"I hope you'll be in Arcadia long enough to see Doctor Meredith. She'd hate to miss you, Mister Jones. She's spoken more than once about wanting to know how you were faring."

"We were planning on staying a while, Doc," says Heyes.

A while, huh? On the train it was a day or two.

"That's good news, Mister – er…" By this time Doctor Cooper's forefinger is flicking through a ruled notebook.

"Smith, Joshua Smith."

"Oh, yes."

I glance at Heyes to see how he's taking only my name having been mentioned often enough to get remembered. He looks… I dunno.

"I'm confused, Mister Jones. These notes and accounts clearly show your bills as paid in full. Drugs – both oral and topical, board, provision of crutches, initial surgery – good heavens, I still can't believe she succeeded in bringing off a lateral pelvic…"

"There must be a mistake, Doc…" interrupts Heyes.

"No. All settled. And the money sure balances with the books. Maybe you just didn't realise it was the final total you were paying?" Heyes and I exchange a glance. We know that's not true. He carries on, cheerfully, "You'd have to get up pretty early to catch Doctor Meredith out on her math. Replacement drugs and chloroform ordered and paid for. Same with the crutches. All in order. I'd sure like to relieve you of a few of those dollars, Mister Smith, but you and Mister Jones don't owe this practise a thing."

As he finishes, we hear the front door click open and bang shut. A familiar voice calls out, "Hello, Elizabeth, any messages?"

Heyes head jerks round like a cat who's just heard a bird twitter in the bushes. I reckon he stops breathing, the way he used to sometimes when he was listening for that last tumbler to click into place.

Doctor Cooper is already calling out, "Helen! Come on in here, there's someone I know you'll be pleased to see."

From his smile, I know he means ME and I'm pretty sure he's only talking about how well my hip's healed. Whatever's in Nell's head, it's pretty clear she hasn't given her boss any reason to think she's pining over Joshua Smith. Just maybe his 'scenario one' was right. Maybe she's not given him a second thoug…

Oh sheesh.

Nell bounces in, sees Heyes and – that's that. One look at her face and I know 'scenario one' is a non-starter.

One glance at him and 'scenario three – I realise she's not so special after all, Kid' is dead in the water too. I don't blame him. At that moment, with her cheeks flushing up, her eyes sparkling, her lips opening to give a gasp of pleasure, lit from inside with happiness, she IS something pretty special.

That leaves me to pin my hopes on option two – she'll be so mad at the way we walked out it won't matter what she thought before. Well – just now she looks as if nothing Heyes decided to do could make her mad ever again, but like I said before, you never can tell with women.

---oooOOOooo---

**NARRATTED BY NELL**

He's come back!

I walk into Doctor Cooper's office, not expecting to see anyone in particular, and it IS someone in particular! It is BETTER than someone in particular. It is HIM! Looking just as I remember and smiling at me and…

I ought to be angry. At the very least, I ought to be cool and distant. To walk out without a word and never write. I ought to…

Maybe later.

Just for now, I don't give the snap of my fingers about him going away. I only care that he came back. Just for now I am going to let my insides sing and dance and turn somersaults for joy. Calm good sense can wait half an hour, surely?

Of course, even while I silently whoop huzzahs, I hope I am not so ill-bred as to make my feelings obvious.

"Mister Jones! Mister Smith!" I make sure I put Thaddeus first, you see, because he was the actual patient. "What an unexpected pleasure! This is Mister Thaddeus Jones, Doctor Cooper. He is the…"

"I know! He was telling me."

"How is your hip, Mister Jones? Please – would you walk for me?" I am trying not to look too often at HIM. I am 'on duty' you see. I will always put work first when 'on duty'. Anyway, as I said, one does not care to be obvious.

Mister Jones looks as if he'd rather stay in his chair, but, as both Doctor Cooper and I smile, expectantly, he gets up and – sheepishly – strides away across the room. I frown. "Again," I order. "Come back and walk away from me again." He opens his mouth as if he is about to refuse, then, with a shrug and a grin, he obeys. I stare at the movement of the gluteus maximus muscles. "There is just a trace of – hardly a limp – more a sway," I say.

"That's just Jones' swagger, ma'am." HIS voice, teasing the way it used to! "Don't make fun. He reckons it makes him look tough."

I meet the brown eyes. Laughing, but – with something warm and serious behind the laughter. What he said is not all that funny, but it does not matter. I laugh back. His words free me to laugh for sheer, utter, absolute joy.

"These boys want to pay us twice," beams Doctor Cooper, "…How about that for novelty?"

That stops me laughing. I know I blushed when I walked in and saw – him. Now I do not just blush, I turn red as fire. I did not lie to Doctor Cooper, nor to my Aunt, nor Ann, nor Sheriff Fraser. Not LIE. Not really. I – equivocated. I said all the bills had been settled – which was not exactly a lie by the time I said it; and, I let Aunt Miriam think Mister Smith and Mister Jones had said a proper goodbye to me and sent their respects to her; and I let Ann think…

I do not know why.

I suppose I…

I wanted to…

I did not want other people – people who matter to me – thinking badly of him. There.

Doctor Cooper watches my face. We have worked side by side for a good while now. He knows me and is no fool. How can he be? He took me on as a junior partner, did he not?

"Doctor Meredith, did you pay these bills yourself?"

I hesitate. I cannot tell a direct, thumping lie to Doctor Cooper. Well, maybe I CAN, but I won't! I have never told a direct, thumping out and out lie to ANYONE. Not since I grew up, I mean. ALL little children tell lies. I may have been an annoying, opinionated little bookworm, but I was not so singular as all that!

"You shouldn't have done that," his voice is very kind, "…just because I was away doesn't mean I shouldn't take my usual share of any bad debts."

"You have Peter at college," I say, gruffly. "And the other boys still away at school and Sally's wedding to pay for later in the year and…" I break off. I do not know quite why I am so embarrassed. It is not as if I have been caught with my hand in the till, is it? Nor have I made some kind of exaggerated, noble gesture worthy of a heroine in a cheap, silly novel. What has it cost me? Having to wear last year's summer party frocks rather than having new ones made. A good trim to my book orders over the coming months. Not exactly a major sacrifice, is it?

I do not look at Mister Smith. Again, I am not entirely sure why. It is not as if my behaviour has given HIM anything to complain of.

I am glad he came back, though. I mean to settle up, once he could. OBVIOUSLY I am glad he came back ANYWAY! If you have not picked that up by now – there is no hope for you!

"How much do I owe you, ma'am?" he asks, very quietly.

"Nothing! It doesn't matter. You told me you couldn't pay."

But, Doctor Cooper turns around the ledger and points at the total.

Joshua Smith's eyebrows rise, "Sheesh, Thaddeus. If I'd known your hip cost that much I'd'a tried to trade it for something useful!"

He peels notes from a slim – I believe the apt term might be wad – and holds them out to me. I look at the 'wad'. Where did he get that? Did he win it gambling?

I suppose it is none of my business.

No, not 'suppose'. It IS none of my business.

Not unless we become a cou…

And, that is not very likely however much I think I saw his face light up when I walked in and whatever seeing him again did to my insides.

Besides, I do not exactly disapprove of gambling, per se. I just…

Could the men he won the money from afford to lose it? Did he know? Did he care?

What is in my mind is the four or five thin, anxious women I know whose husbands lose most of their earnings every week over the poker table. Them and their hungry, cold, crying children whose ailments and bruises I treat – knowing the most useful prescription would be a change of father - and whose bills I also occasionally sign off as paid after dipping into my own purse, against my better judgement.

He is very clever. If he sat at a card table with those five family men, he could strip their pockets – and their children's plates and skinny backs - bare within the hour. And, by all masculine rules it would be entirely 'fair'.

It is this thought that makes my voice stiffer than it would otherwise be as I wave away the money. "No, I couldn't possibly." Perhaps I am misjudging him. Perhaps he earned it by honest toil. Even if he won it, perhaps every other player was comfortably rich and simply enjoying frittering away their loose change. Who knows?

We are falling into a dumb-show of 'please take it', 'I couldn't possibly'. Doctor Cooper clears his throat, "May I make a suggestion? Why not put it into the benevolent fund? Call it a mutual donation."

I give Joshua Smith the tiniest twitch of a questioning eyebrow. An almost imperceptible 'fine with me' shrug of the shoulders in response. We smile at each other, as I tuck the money in an envelope, ready to hand over. I think I should not be so quick to suspect him of… Well, of anything.

"Thank you," I say. A pause. I want to ask what made them leave so suddenly, Doctor Cooper is here. "Are you staying at Brown's Hotel?" I enquire instead.

"Yes, ma'am," from Mister Jones. His friend looks as if he is about to add something, but nothing comes.

Pause.

"Will you call on the Buchanan's?" I sound as if I am making small talk! And for three weeks we lived in the same house and had so much to say to each other, the days were not long enough.

"Uh huh." Mister Jones again. "How is she?"

"Huge!" I grin, "…I have my money on three weeks today." I remember my thoughts about gambling not two minutes ago and blush.

Both men smile back at me. Joshua Smith is still apparently about to speak, but not doing so.

Pause. Elo-o-o-ongated pause.

"Well," begins Doctor Cooper, "…Is there anything else we can do for you gentlemen?" The unstated 'because if not, may I have my office back?' is clear.

They both stand. I hold out my hand, "Good-bye, Mister Jones."

"Good-bye, ma'am."

"Good-bye, Mister Smith."

He shakes my hand and… Is he going to say anything? No? No? I suppose I could say something myself. I yap on enough about the equality of the sexes. But… Well! This is not a question of political involvement or social reform, is it? There are some areas in which even I believe the man should lead off – like dancing! He puts on his hat, heads for the door. Nothing! Oh, well. I daresay I will live. I was becoming quite reconciled to his never returning at all. Ah! He wheels round, the hat comes off again, he takes a breath, I am treated to a charming smile and…

"I wonder, ma'am, could I take you to dinner tonight to celebrate Jones' recovery and to thank you for what you did?"

What? Dinner tonight? What does he mean – dinner tonight? He is supposed to say, 'may I call on your aunt?', or 'which day are you and your aunt 'at home', ma'am? – may I call?'

"That is very kind, but I am speaking at the debating society tonight, Mister Smith. The topic is, 'What should be the principle objective of our penal system?' Perhaps we may see you there? At the church hall, seven'o'clock."

"Sure, ma'am. We wouldn't miss that, would we Thaddeus?" I notice Mister Jones blinks a touch, at this. Poor chap, the chairs aren't even comfortable. "What about tomorrow – for dinner that is?"

What shall I say? Er… "I am afraid my aunt may be engaged, Mister Smith. I can't answer for her. But, perhaps you had planned to invite another hostess?"

His face falls, just a touch, although the smile stays in place. He must realise, though, I cannot possibly join a man for dinner in a public hotel without a married woman to receive me? Or at any rate, I am not going to! I flout enough conventions in my working life. Sticking strictly to the rules in my off-duty hours is a way of keeping censorious and disapproving tongues under some control and letting that working life continue.

Lunch. He could ask me to lunch. We could take Thaddeus Jones with us, maybe ask Lizzie Cooper to come along to make a four. Lunch combines broad daylight, comparative brevity since everyone needs to get back to work, informality – you can almost just turn up and happen to join them at their table – with an utter lack of candlelight and romance. Lunch for four would be perfectly acceptable; it would raise not a single disapproving eyebrow.

He does not ask though. He leaves.

Never mind. I will have a word with Ann and Charles. They can ask him to supper, casually, nothing too obvious. The fact I happen to be invited on the same night will be a complete co-incidence.

After all, what are friends for?

---oooOOOooo---


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

Heyes is kinda quiet all afternoon. He knew, we both knew, Nell don't live in town mosta the time, just works there. We both knew that mosta the time she isn't THE doctor, she's 'that other gal doctor'. We both knew it, but I think it took walking through that surgery door and things being so different for it to hit home. It's hit home to Heyes, now. I reckon part of him imagined coming back and it being the same – Nell and Ann both in the parlour, cosy evenings talking and reading and laughing together, them trooping up to their room, us going to ours, taking turns making the breakfast coffee. I feel a pang myself – happy times.

We go call on Ann, meet the wonderful Charles. Nice guy. Talks a lot, but I'm broken in to folk who talk a lot, huh?

We go see the guy at the livery, buy a coupla horses and gear after agreeing on a price he'll take 'em back at if we take the train out again. We go for a ride. Not the first time I've been back in the saddle since the accident, but we still take it gentle. Heyes heads west outta town, not far, a coupla miles. We go over a ridge from which we can look down at the Hartleman place. Where Aunt Miriam lives; where Nell lives except for when she stays over at the Coopers. He don't say that's where he's heading, but you don't hafta be a genius to work it out, huh?

He stops on the ridge and leans forward on his saddle-horn, stares down into the valley. He flashes me a rueful grin, "Pretty fancy, huh?"

"Uh huh."

Pause.

"Fancy a beer before we go listen to this debate at the Church Hall, Kid?"

"Nope."

He looks surprised.

"What I fancy, Heyes, is four or five beers INSTEAD of goin' to this dang debate. Maybe a friendly game of poker."

"I'm not allowed poker in this town."

"I am."

"Well," he shifts in his saddle, "…we're not joined at the hip, Kid. Suit yourself."

---oooOOOooo---

"…Are you staying in Arcadia long, Mister Jones?" It's Hannah Tammett, Fred's sister, asking, as she passes me a glass of lemonade.

"We've not exactly decided, ma'am. Probably not."

"How exciting it must be, travelling so much!"

Yeah, right.

"I've never been out of Arcadia, but I'd love to travel."

"Uh huh?"

"Would you like another slice of cherry cake, Mister Jones?" This is from Jenny Cooper. Sheesh! How many daughters does the doc have?

"Thank you, ma'am."

You've probably gathered that though we ain't joined at the hip, I still went to this dang debate. Sheesh! Can some folk TALK! But, at least I'm not sitting in the saloon wondering what hole Heyes is digging us into. This part of the evening isn't so bad. Pretty girls smiling and passing refreshments, yapping about ordinary stuff, not 'penal reform'. The clutch around me are all a touch young, but no way am I gonna add to our problems by showing more'n a polite interest in ANYONE female anyhow, so it don't matter. I guess Hannah and Jenny are both here because in a small town a gal takes any chance she can to put on her best ribbons, fluff up her hair and go where she can mingle with her friends and be seen by the local bucks. A coupla hands from the lumber mill who joined me in having to listen to the yapping earlier with their eyes shut at times - to concentrate, y'know - are hanging near these two gals and looking glum at seeing a new face get the attention.

I glance over at Heyes. He's hovering near Nell, who's talking earnestly to a couple of fellas in suits and two much older ladies. He's joining in but he's not getting her to himself, I'd say he's not even getting more'n a fifth share of her attention. She looks over and smiles. One of the other ladies looks over too; no smile. I cannot hear, but I reckon Nell is making polite 'excuse me' noises. She comes across, non-smiler and the younger of the suits come with her. So does Heyes.

"This is my partner, Thaddeus Jones, ma'am. Thaddeus, this is Mrs. Rotherham and her son, Will."

Rotherham? That name's come up before. THIS is the one who Nell calls 'THAT woman!' after Ladies' Committee nights. I gather they don't see eye to eye on – well anything; anything 'cept 'I oughta be the one bossing folk round' that is.

She looks me up and down. "Did you enjoy the debate, Mister Jones?"

"You sure can talk, ma'am."

Heyes scowls at me. Why? What was wrong with that?! If I said what I really thought he'd have something to scowl about! Besides, how many of these dang townsfolk are we trying to make a good impression on?

"Doctor Meredith, would you like me to fetch you more lemonade?" asks Will Rotherham.

He's hovering like…

HEY! He's hovering like Heyes!

Maybe, that explains some of the disapproval wafting from his mother towards Nell. It's not just 'who's queen bee?' it's 'hands off my son'. Or not? Maybe she approves and it's Heyes making her look like she's sucking a lemon?

Not that Heyes REALLY has a rival. I can see Nell acts perfectly friendly to Will Rotherham in a way that means she's never so much as noticed he likes her. With Heyes she's trying her level best to act the same way, but is kinda conscious of where he is all the time and when he takes her empty glass their fingers touch and, though she don't so much as pause in what she's saying, her cheeks glow.

"…I thought you made your arguments very skilfully, Doctor Meredith," he – Will I mean, not Heyes – is saying.

"Well, I was only seconder, Mister Rotherham. Charles was the proposer…"

Charles Buchanan turns around from where he's telling the local reverend more than he wants to know 'bout labour conditions in 'Frisco. Ann's not here, I think the heat's getting to her now she's so near her time.

"Did I hear my name being taken in vain?"

"However skilfully the argument was made," sniffs Mrs. Rotherham, "…I cannot agree that the principle object of our prisons should be molly-coddling criminals in cosseted comfort at the expense of law-abiding and tax-paying citizens."

"If you thought that's what Doctor Meredith and I were saying, ma'am, I guess I wasn't skilful at all," smiles Charles.

"Your newspaper certainly seems to consider that that outlaw, Jed Butler, has been treated too harshly…"

I guess this month's debate topic – they do this EVERY month and here was me thinking Arcadia was kinda on the slow side, huh? – has come outta the excitement they had back in May.

"And it was clear last month that you thought the sentence excessive, Miss Meredith."

"Doctor Meredith," corrects Nell, civilly. I wonder how many hundreds of times she's corrected 'that woman'?

"And, yes," chimes in Charles, "I think fifteen years hard labour for Jed Butler is harsh. 'Hard labour', the very term seems to epitomise what's wrong with…"

"You'd have him sitting around in idleness, I suppose?" interrupts Mrs. Rotherham.

"Surely…" We are back to Nell. "It would be more to the point if the labour were constructive, or uplifting, or restitutional, or educational? What is the point of breaking his spirit further? Won't that simply turn him out still more disaffected in fifteen years? I hope I'm not so naïve as to believe everyone can be reformed, but I think people can change and if we can help, let's do so should be our default position."

Nell sure is a windbag sometimes, but I reckon she's got a good heart under all these fancy notions.

"Oh, I must go and speak to Reverend Alleyn, excuse me, Mrs. Rutherford," and, one cheek swollen with a huge last bite of cherry cake, she bounces away.

---oooOOOooo---

I don't reckon Heyes got Nell completely to himself for two minutes together. He's watching though and, as soon as she glances at the clock, he's there, offering to walk her home. Well, back to the Cooper place; she's staying over – it's midweek.

"That's very kind, Mister Smith."

He fetches her shawl, as he holds it up Sally Cooper and her beau walk over. "Yes, I guess it's time to leave, Nell. Where's Jenny and Lizzie? Come along, girls."

Jenny's still standing by me. She smiles so hopefully, I go fetch her shawl. I fetch Hannah's too, her place is on the way to the Coopers. They're both nice kids. Hannah's mother appears from nowhere to walk with us all. Charles Buchanan buttons his jacket and starts talking to Heyes about the newspaper.

"…We can discuss this at supper, tomorrow," tries Heyes, but Charles stays by him.

We're going to the Buchanans tomorrow, huh? It's news to me! I see Nell throw Charles a grateful look. Ah, I see. Well, at least the chairs there have cushions and I'll get something a mite stronger'n lemonade to drink

It's a good job my partner has a poker-face, otherwise I reckon it would have been a real picture as he realised what he saw as a moonlight stroll for two – me making myself scarce at the corner where we turn for the hotel, is now a party of nearly a dozen trouping along.

"Nell, can I talk to you?" trills Hannah; and she slips her arm through Nell's and pulls her aside as we set off. Heyes is not getting so much as a hand resting on his sleeve. His only compensation has to be that SHE looks put out too.

---oooOOOooo---

After saying good-night to the crowd gathered round Nell at her door, we go to the saloon for something to wash away the taste of all that lemonade. Heyes is pretty quiet. We go back to our hotel. He's still pretty quiet. Every cloud, huh?

"Heyes…"

"Uh huh?"

"If that evenin' was part of a Hannibal Heyes plan, I hafta say – it wasn't one of your best."

---oooOOOooo---

**NEXT EVENING - WEDNESDAY - NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

"Aren't we waiting for…? I thought we were expecting Miss Meredith?" Heyes tries to sound casual, as Ann leads us to the table.

This evening IS better. I'm getting wine to drink and proper food. And I like Ann. I like Charles too. Supper at their place is fine with me.

"Oh, she'll be running late, she won't mind us starting," says Ann.

Heyes does no justice to the cold roast chicken with salad. He's not even touching his baked potato. What a waste! Nor is he giving his full mind to talking to Charles and Ann about working on the paper again, though I can tell he WOULD be real interested if he weren't busy twitching every time he hears footsteps in the street.

A blueberry pie arrives. It's good!

"Maybe something's happened to her?" This interrupts what Ann is telling him about a fund-raising dance the reverend's wife is organising.

"Who – Mrs. Alleyn?" asks Charles, confused. Whatever else Ann has told him, she's not filled him in on all her suspicions about Nell and Heyes. If she has suspicions, that is. I'm only guessing.

"No, Ne… Miss Meredith. Perhaps something's happened to her."

"I wouldn't worry," says Ann, "it'll only be her getting held up with a patient."

"I don't know," grins Charles, "…last time she didn't turn up for supper, she was reading a mystery novel in the bath and got so caught up in the plot she forgot the time. And there was the time she'd double booked herself and was over at Miss Skinner's place toasting cheese and planning the time when women win the vote and give all us men our well-deserved comeuppance." He spoons up some more cream. "Made a change from her doing her scheming with Ann and them both shooting me looks as if to say; come the glorious day, he'll be first against the wall!"

"Charles! You make it sound as if she… You know perfectly well those two times were the most casual of 'come over later if you like' invitations!"

"Oh, Nell knows we'd never take offence if something else came up."

Heyes frowns as he pushes his pie round his plate. The Buchanans may not take offence but I reckon I can guess what's going through his mind.

She hasn't turned up.

She'd a chance to spend a friendly evening with him – with a dang sight more chance of a little privacy than last night – and she hasn't bothered to turn up.

Maybe she preferred to stay warm and cosy with her nose in a book.

Maybe she'd rather be round with the schoolmarm yapping about politics.

Heyes is already feeling kinda touchy 'cos he's running outta ways to pretend he's NOT come back to moon over the doc AND I made him listen to just how dumb I think mooning over her makes him. Having to sit there, in front of me wearing my 'I told ya so!' look – I'm trying not to, but, sheesh, I'm not a saint! – is getting to him.

As soon as we've drunk our coffee, with a tot of whiskey livening it up – told you this was a better evening - Heyes is on his feet, full of polite thank yous. I was enjoying a few reminiscences 'bout 'Frisco with Charles, but – no, Heyes reckons we gotta go.

"So soon?" Ann's saying. "It's early. Do stay for another coffee…"

"Nell will be so sorry to have missed…" This is Charles.

Heyes interrupts him, "You've both been real hospitable, but we oughta go. Mrs. Buchanan is tired."

I shoot a look at Ann. Well, maybe. She looks less tired than when we turned up if you ask me, but I guess that's natural as the evening cools.

We're shaking hands out on the porch when we see a small figure in the distance doing a kinda walk three paces, run three paces trot along the street. 'It' – though I guess you don't hafta be a genius to work out who it is, huh? I'm not exactly Edgar Allen Poe when it comes to telling this - looks up and, I guess, sees us leaving. 'It' stops trotting, lifts up its skirts with one hand and clamps the other on its head to keep its hat in place and starts to run properly. For someone on the short, dumpy side, she sure can cover the ground!

"No need to panic," Charles calls, cheerfully, once she gets within hearing distance, "…We put your potato in the stove to keep warm and the chicken in the ice box to keep cool. We even saved you a glass or two of wine."

She's here. Scarlet in the face and panting for breath, she gasps, "You're – heeeeeek - not lea - heeek, heeek – leavin – hwacccchhhhh…"

"Yes, we must go," says Heyes, all cool. He don't meet her eyes, just makes a big show of being real casual, as he brushes non-existent dust off his sleeve. I guess you don't hafta be under twenty to behave like an idiot, huh?

"Did you have a difficult patient, Nell?" asks Ann. She looks as if she'd like to slap Heyes, but she's too much of a lady to say anything.

Heyes flashes a tiny glance at Nell. If she says 'yes', I reckon he'll come off his high horse.

"No - heeeeek…"

Sheesh! I know she has a thing about only telling the truth, but come on, Nell!

"Just everyone ALL day – heek - took longer than – heeek!" She bends over clutching her side. "Stitch! Owww! And, mylastcallwasatthe - heeeek - Robinsonsand – OWWW! - onceIhadchangedJimsdressingshe – heek, OWWW – askedmetolistentothebabyscoughandthen – hwaaachhh - tolookatJessiesrash – heeek - notthattheresmuchwrongwitheitherofthembutitseemschurlishto…" Splutter.

"Try breathing," smiles Charles. "I don't claim to have a medical training, but, speaking as a layman, I find it works wonders."

"You ran all the way from the Robinson's?" admires Ann, "That's two miles. No wonder you're so..."

Again Heyes eyes flick up. If she ran all that way to see him…

"No," says Nell, getting her breath now.

Oh, for Pete's sake! You don't hafta lie, woman! What's wrong with a silent eyelash flutter?

"I needed to go back to the Coopers…"

I look at her. It dawns on me that what she's wearing has a ruffle round the hem, a flower print and is kinda – well, kinda pinker than what she usually wears. Her hair's different too, not so tightly pinned. Those bits over her ears haven't just worked loose in the sprint. She set out with a coupla curls left free at the front. Before they got plastered flat with sweat and the back mussed up running, it musta looked kinda pretty. Before she got all shiny red like a lobster and kicked up so much dust over her damp face you'd think she'd done a shift in a stone quarry, SHE musta looked kinda pretty too.

She went back to get herself gussied up, didn't she? For Heyes. Okay, she made the wrong call; turning up sooner woulda been a better choice, but, all the same – it's the kinda mistake natural enough for a girl. Or even an 'I'm not a girl, I'm a woman'.

Maybe the same kinda thing is going on in Heyes' head. His voice is still a touch stiff, but he does meet her eyes and he does turn on a little of the silver tongue charm, "I reckon tomorrow's gonna be another lovely day, ma'am. I was thinking how nice it'd be to take a ride out to the lake…"

"I'm sure you'll enjoy that very much, Mister Smith. I wish I could find time tomorrow to enjoy some of this glorious weather, but I'm afraid I'm booked solid all day and Ann and I are engaged with Miss Skinner – campaigning work - in the evening."

Heyes' smile switches off. Whatever he pictured happening in Arcadia, it wasn't this. I guess his opinion is that since he's offering Nell the privilege of his company, SHE oughta show some appreciation of how dang lucky she is and put the rest of her life on hold while he's around. NOW, I ain't saying any normal fella don't like to feel his gal would rather spend time spooning than yapping with two other gals, BUT – Nell isn't his gal, is she? AND, if he wants to change that – he oughta take the scowl off his face and stop acting like a jackass.

"My first real free time will be at the dance Mrs. Alleyn has organised this Friday. Apart from now. It is a shame you can't stay a while now. It's a lovely evening – now. This evening – right now – is made for sitting out on the porch."

Silence from Heyes.

"I'm looking forward to Friday, I love dancing," says Nell.

Come on Heyes. From her that's the equivalent of grovelling at your feet. He seems to realise this.

"If I could have the pleasure of escorting you, Miss Mered…?"

"Mister Rutherford offered to escort me some weeks ago, but I hope we will see both you there?" He gets a sweet smile. "One can never have too many agreeable partne…"

Heyes gets back on his high horse so quick you wouldn't notice he'd climbed off. "I dunno, ma'am. Jones and I mighta left town by then. Not much to keep us here, huh? We won't take up any more of your time, you being so busy and all. Goodnight." To Ann, "Goodnight, ma'am, goodnight, Buchanan. Thank you both for a real fine evening."

"Goodnight," says Ann, quietly. "Come along, Charles." And, they go in.

"Goodnight," echoes Nell, mounting a high horse of her own and stalking past Heyes with her nose in the air. "I'm sure you have a full evening of drinking whiskey, smoking cheap cigars and playing cards with total strangers before drifting off to another short-term casual job which neither uses the talents you were born with, nor is of any use whatsoever to the greater good of mankind. Don't let me keep you from that any longer."

"Don't worry, I won't!" says Heyes, but he says it to a shut door. "Conceited, self-righteous…"

"Hey!" I warn. The doc saved my life. If he calls her anything too bad, I may hafta flatten him.

"Does she think I've nothing better to do than hang around a church hall waiting for the chance of a coupla dances with her?"

"I think she KNOWS that, Heyes."

"What makes her think she's so dang special?"

"Beats me. Wanna tell me what makes YOU think she's so dang special?"

He glowers at that. Half a street of silent striding and fuming. "Another casual job that don't use my talents… Huh! Who the Sam Hill does she think she is? Y'know what I reckon?"

"I reckon I'm gonna."

"I reckon she reckons I'll turn up at that dang dance!"

"I reckon she's right."

Now, y'know in some ways it'd suit me just fine if Heyes came to his senses and saw there was no point hanging around Arcadia a day longer. So why I felt the need to say THAT, I dunno. I see his face and shut up.

Like I say, I'm not exactly in the match-making corner, am I?

Another half street of silence.

"Are we leavin' town, Heyes?"

"Nope! But if she thinks I'm stayin' 'cos of her, she can dang well think again!"

I face him. "Heyes, you're a jackass!" That pretty much sums up all I gotta say on the subject. I turn on my heel and stride into the nearest saloon.

---oooOOOooo---


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

**FRIDAY EVENING – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

"If you're gonna sit scowlin' across the street an' actin' like a cat on hot bricks every time someone passes by, you might as well go to the dang dance!"

"I'm not scowling. I'm thinking whether to stick…"

Supposedly, we're playing a quiet game of blackjack.

"Hit me."

If only. The way he's been acting yesterday and today, that's just what I wanna do!

"Hit me, again."

I take a sip of my beer, wince at the sourness. "Sheesh, Heyes, this is the worst saloon in town. Let's move to…"

"Nah. I like the…" he looks round for anything to like about this place, "…the piano."

"There ain't no one playin' the piano!"

"Uh huh. That's what I like. Nice an' peaceful."

I roll my eyes. 'Course I know what he really likes 'bout this place. You can see the Church Hall from the window.

There's a flutter of muslin and a few girlish giggles from across the street. Heyes lifts his cards so he can pretend he's looking at them, not at the new arrivals.

"Just the Coopers," I say. Lizzie Cooper looks good. Hey, so does Louise Skinner the schoolmarm. So does …

"Huh? Oh, that dumb dance? I'd forgotten it was tonight, Kid."

"Let's hope you don't have to talk us outta any tight corners, Heyes, 'cos if you can't lie better'n that – I hafta tell you, you've lost your touch!" I take another look at the smiling, respectable folk milling around the Church Hall. "She's not with 'em."

A wide-eyed innocent look, "She? She - who, Kid?"

I stare at him. "Pffftttt!" I think that sums it up. "There she is – in the yellow – with her aunt." I take another pull at my beer. "Pretty roses. I like flowers in a girl's hair." Pause. "Nice to see her getting a chance to laugh and relax."

That's it. He cracks and stands up to take a good look. She IS laughing at something someone's said – her nose has that little crease across it and her eyes are all crinkled. Music strikes up. She slips her arm through her aunt's and gives a little skip as she pulls her into the Hall. Will Rutherford follows behind carrying two spangled shawls.

"She told us she liked dancing," I remark. "Reckon she don't mean to miss any of it."

Heyes looks as if he'd been banking on winning with four aces only to see someone lay down a royal flush. I guess Nell was supposed to show up looking miserable and gaze down the street, hands clasped together, sighing 'If only HE was here!'; or, even better, not show up at all, but sit home kicking herself for not keeping all her evenings free on the off chance Joshua Smith came back to town.

"Well," I stand up, "silent piano or no silent piano, this place is too dang exciting for me."

"Are you going to the Silver Dollar?" he glooms, draining his glass and standing up too.

"Nah," I give him a friendly smile. "I'M goin' dancin', Heyes. Gonna show the doc just what a fine job she did on this leg. Like you keep tellin' me, we're not joined at the hip, huh."

He's speechless. I stride off before he stops being speechless, 'cos – with Heyes – it never lasts long.

---oooOOOooo---

"What time d'ya call THIS, Kid?"

Heyes stops pacing our room and stares at me as I shut the door.

I blink at the clock. "I call it ten past midnight. Why? Were you worried I'd turned into a pumpkin?"

He scowls. A pause. I smile at him and sit down to pull off my boots. If he wants to know, he's gonna hafta ask. More pause. I start to unbuckle my belt.

"Did she – y'know – ask where I was?"

I try out his own wide-eyed innocent look. "She? She – who, Heyes?" His hands go to his hips and the scowl deepens. "Oh! You mean the doc? I'll tell you somethin'…"

I make him give an "Uh huh?" before I carry on.

"That woman is one popular lady! Didn't sit out once! And for a gal who likes her food, she's sure light on her feet – when we stripped the willow…"

"YOU danced with her?"

"Well it'd be kinda dumb to sit sulking in my room and miss the chance, huh?"

"I'm not sulking! And you stripped WHAT?"

"The willow. I'da thought with all the dang readin' you do, you'd a come across that! I danced with her aunt too. Nice lady. They'll be 'at home' all weekend."

"Huh?"

"That means gentlemen are welcome to call." Pause. "If'n they aren't busy sulking."

"I am NOT sulking!"

"Are you gonna call?"

"No! We might not be here! You keep sayin' we oughta move on. We mighta moved on!"

"Are we movin' on?"

Long pause. I meet his eyes and wait. His forehead furrows as if he's wrassling with a problem.

"No!"

"You've gotta finish a touch more sulkin' first, huh?"

"For the last time, Kid. I am NOT sulking!"

"Heyes! If your bottom lip stuck out any further birds'd use it as a roostin' spot!"

"Hannibal Heyes does NOT sulk! He bides his time. She was lookin' for me tonight, huh? You're not gonna tell me she wasn't hoping I'd show up."

I shrug. He's right, but there's no need to tell him that. Her face fell when she looked over my shoulder and saw I was on my own. Sure, she'd too much pride to let it spoil her night – and I tip my hat to her for that! – but, she was disappointed.

"And you're not gonna tell me she won't be hoping I call over the weekend?"

I'm not gonna tell him nothing!

"We appreciate stuff more if we hafta wait for it, Kid. Come Monday – she'll be in a real appreciative mood. THEN I'll go call."

I change my mind. I am gonna tell him something.

"Heyes," I say, turning down the lamp by my bed, "…you're a jackass!"

---oooOOOooo---

**MONDAY - NARRATTED BY NELL**

"Do take a seat. What seems to be the trouble?"

I hear the chair scrape, as I slip the last set of notes into the folder and file them under 'R'.

"It's my heart, Doctor."

I swivel round. HIM! What is HE doing here? Then, hoping all the mix of silly emotions I am feeling does not show on my face, I tell myself three things.

Firstly, not coming to a dance and not calling on me is hardly a crime; maybe I only imagined he was interested. Things I imagine are not his fault. I have been telling myself THIS most of the weekend in the intervals of trying to convince myself I do not give the snap of my fingers whether he calls or not.

Secondly, even apparently healthy young men are allowed to feel ill and visit a doctor.

Thirdly, it is not usual for young men to ask for me rather than Doctor Cooper. BUT, he did watch me work on his friend so, possibly, he thinks I am exceptionally good at my job. Quite right too!

"Your heart? Well slip off your jacket and unbutton your shirt, Mister Smith." I warm the end of the stethoscope in my palm. He may have behaved like a - I do not know a good enough word! – on Wednesday evening, but no patient of mine suffers cold steel without warning. "The Henley too, please." I place the metal circle on his chest. "Breath deeply. In. Out. And again. Good." It sounds fine to me, well, maybe a touch fast as I bend my head closer. "Why are you concerned, Mister Smith? Have you experienced pain?"

"Not so much pain, more of an ache."

"Hmmm? Would you raise your shirt at the back, please? That's fine, thank you." I listen again. Nothing unusual. Heart and lungs both normal.

"Ever since I left Arcadia, my heart's been aching - y'know, heartache."

I stiffen. Is he doing what I think he's doing?

"And this last week, I've noticed my heart races at certain times…"

He touches my hand.

"It pounded like a drum when you walked through the door on Tuesday and I saw you for the first time in…"

He's got a whole speech worked out. Not just words; the smiles, the charm, the dimples, the earnest looks from the smiling brown eyes, it is all there. An apology for how he behaved Wednesday – he was just so disappointed when I didn't show up. I let him finish. I do not hear it all because, before the end, I am so incandescent with anger I am watching his lips move without the meaning reaching my brain.

How dare he? How DARE he?

He comes to a stop, smile still in place. "So what's the prescription, Doctor? Can you help me?"

I take a calming breath. There are now a few hundred women doctors across the country. Possibly in a few years it will reach a thousand around the globe. I do not claim to be an Elizabeth Blackwell - I did not have the fight she had - but I did fight. I fought long and hard to be allowed in to medical school. Once there, I had to prove I was the equal of any man every single day in a system which treated me as anything but. I had to rely on the goodwill of lecturers to allow me in their classes – and swallow my rancour if they refused. I had to put up with the behaviour of male so-called colleagues running juvenile campaigns to bar women. I had to put up with abuse and ridicule and rules that at one point would forbid me to move without a paid chaperone or to sit in the presence of a male visitor even if he lounged in front of me for hours and, at another, would abandon me alone in the roughest slums of city. I did not do all this to have someone who I thought… Someone who I was beginning to…

"Mister Smith, how did you expect me to react to you walking in here to make a joke of my professional status…?"

"I wasn't ma…"

"Or using my consulting room to engineer an opportunity for cheap flirtation?"

His eyes have turned cold. He is angry too. At that moment I do not care HOW angry I make him. How DARE he?

All right. Most of my anger is righteous indignation that this man, a man who I liked SO much, can walk into my place of work and …

Ooooh! As if there were not enough dumb youngsters who think it funny to dare each other to go see the 'Gal Doc'!

But, you are right, a tiny part of my displeasure comes from the question, if he does, after all, WANT to – well - flirt with me, why did he not show up and do it Friday, or Saturday or Sunday?

Is HIS time in the saloon or – or riding down to the lake – or wherever he was - is that more important than MY time healing the sick? Or at any rate being ready to heal the sick if they call and giving useful advice to the 'off-colour' if they don't!

"If you want to reel off any more less than original phrases about pounding hearts and racing pulses - apparently culled from the trashier end of the romantic fiction market – please do so elsewhere and when I am not on duty. They will still be an impertinent annoyance, but they will not risk keeping my patients waiting."

"I wasn't meaning to make fun, ma'am, or to annoy you. 'Course, I didn't realise you'd had your sense of humour surgically removed when you had the so all-fired important professional status fitted!"

If he thinks a dark dangerous look and the controlled fury in his deep voice is going to impress ME one iota, he can think again!

"Let us understand one another, Mister Smith. The next time you call here during surgery hours you had better be, one, genuinely ill and, two, asking to see Doctor Cooper. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

He glowers at me.

"I would like an answer, please, Mister Smith; have I made myself perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly, ma'am."

"Good. Close the door on your way out." I bend my head to my notes and do not glance up until he has left.

Well! That's that! I press my lips firmly together. That would be pressing them together in a determined fashion you understand. NOT, because the bottom one might wobble otherwise. Pfffttt! No chance!

---oooOOOooo---

**NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

Heyes slams into our room. He throws his hat on the bed, screws his jacket into a ball and throws that. The dresser is given a kick. Then another. And another. I'm guessing the last one hurt. Hurt him, that is, not the dresser.

"How did it go?" I dead-pan.

The wall is punched. The wall don't seem to care, but a set of sore knuckles get sucked.

"…Was she in – what was it – an appreciative mood?"

I look up from cleaning my gun to see a face like thunder. I give him an innocent smile.

"Was that the sound of violins I heard floatin' up the street?"

"That self-important, self-righteous, conceited, pompous…"

"Hey!" I am not having any of that! He flashes me a 'sorry' look and sits down, heavily, in the chair.

"Turned you down like a bedspread, huh?" I say, more sympathetically.

"Uh huh." Pause. "Not that I care."

"Yeah, I can see you're not lettin' it get to you, Heyes."

"She's nothing special!"

Well, I'm not falling into that trap. I leave my response at a grunt he can interpret however he likes.

"I don't need her!"

"Nope."

"Getting on her high horse! Accusing me of abusing her consulting room for a…"

"You went to her consulting room? You mean you pretended to be sick and…" I think about that. I don't like folk messing with my gun. Nell probably don't like folk messing with… "That was dumb, Heyes."

He opens his mouth to answer me back, can't find nothing bad enough to say, picks up his jacket, slaps his hat on his head and slams out.

---oooOOOooo---


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN **

**NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

It's getting towards late afternoon by the time I see Heyes again. I've ridden out to the far side of the lake to do a little fishing. Maybe a touch of afternoon napping too. He swings down from his horse and comes sits by me. Silence for a while. He picks up a stick, pokes at the dirt. He sighs. More silence Another sigh.

"Kid, I've been thinking – and you're right."

"About what?"

"About me being a jackass."

"Oh that! Yeah. No question."

"What am I gonna do, Kid?"

"Stop bein' a jackass?" I think for a moment. "Stop bein' a jackass AND leave town. Leave the woman alone." Pause. My voice when I next speak comes out kinda gruff, "It don't seem like it now, but you WILL get over her, Heyes."

"Yeah. I know. Sheesh, we got over our folks being killed, huh? You get over anything. I'd have to be pretty dumb not to know if I leave – I'll get over her. Eventually." He's very quiet for a long time. "Yeah, but… Suppose – this is it, Kid? Suppose she's the one and… Suppose the amnesty comes through next month and I already left her… Suppose SHE is THE one. The ONE. I 'get over her' and that's that. Over the other side of her is just a whole heap of nothing much!"

"There ain't no 'one', Heyes. That's just books."

"All right. I'll accept there's never a 'one' – 'cos if there were – what are the chances you both live in the same country, or get born in the same century, let alone meet. But suppose she's the only ONE I'm ever gonna meet. Ever. It's not as if I'm…" He stops. "I'm not YOU, am I Kid? I don't meet a woman I COULD like every few months. Do I?"

He's not trying to get at me, he's real serious and I guess I know what he means.

"I've done 'leaving town' – that got me nowhere except outta town."

Wherever he's been all afternoon, he's been thinking. There's not much use me keep playing the 'let's move on' card, he's not picking it up. Not right now anyhow.

"Well," I say, "…If you're gonna stick around, at least stop actin' like a jackass. She liked you fine before you started that."

"Only 'cos… No she didn't, Kid. It's what you said, she kinda liked Joshua Smith and he's not even real."

Long pause. His shoulders slump forward. His eyes, fixed on the ground, are so miserable it hardly looks like Heyes. Y'know what? If I tried the 'let's move on' card now, right now, it might just work. But… I can't. It's dumb but I just can't. It'd be like kicking a man when he's down. If I can't do that, I should keep my mouth shut. Surely I can do that? Surely?

"The stuff she liked 'bout Joshua Smith WAS real Heyes. She liked how he did all the right things to save his partner's life before getting him into town. She liked the way he helped dig that bullet out like a real professional. She liked how he nursed him day and night, slept on the floor, emptied chamber pots, made beef tea, carted stuff to the laundry and never complained once. She liked how he didn't wanna be a sponge so went out got himself a job and made a success outta it. She liked how he never forgot when it was his turn to make coffee or wash up. She liked how he never hogged all the hot water when he took a bath. She liked how he was real kind to young Fred Tammett when he kept hangin' 'round. She liked how he got along with her aunt and with her best friend. She liked how he'd yap on with her about all the kinda stuff that sends normal folk to sleep. Sheesh! She even liked his dumb jokes and the way he couldn't walk past a book without stickin' his dang nose in it!"

Nope, I guess I can't keep my mouth shut. I just can't bear to see him look so - so…

A shadow of the old Heyes' smile slowly returns. "Aw, shucks, Kid. There's no need to get mushy!"

"Mushy? Pfffttt! 'T'ain't me thinks you're some kinda Florence Nightingale in pants. The only thing stoppin' ME spittin' out your beef tea was knowing you'd be the one washin' it off and you're more ham-fisted than a sty full of hogs. It's HER you'd got fooled!"

"Did she…?" He is gonna ask if she said any of that guff, but changes his mind. Good. So far as mush goes, I'm done for a few months now. He straightens up, I can see he's almost back to thinking rather than glooming. Almost.

"Yeah, but… I dunno, Kid. She don't like men carrying guns, she don't like gambling – well, not real gambling, she don't approve of spending night after night in saloons, she don't like men hanging around with saloon gals 'cos if the customers stopped paying, women wouldn't get trafficked into prostitution and trapped into a life of…"

I musta dozed off during that bit, but it sounds like Nell. Mind you, you don't hafta bang on 'bout women's rights to not like your man paying for it with someone else, do ya?

"She likes men to have a steady job and to do something worthwhile and to put themselves out for folk worse off. She likes…" He stops. Yup. The Heyes brain is working. "I guess we could do something worthwhile…"

We? WE? I hope that was a royal 'we'!

"… I like plotting and scheming to get hold of money, huh? Even since we've gone straight, I still like that."

Yup, with him so far…

"What I mean is, I like the plotting an' scheming an' silver tonguing folk outta it, not just the money. The money's almost a bonus. I don't hafta blow it all on wine, women, song and poker, huh? I could think up new ways to raise funds for worthwhile stuff – hospitals and education and – and, y'know, stuff. Say I strike a deal with myself – half for a good cause, half for blowing on a bad cause – that'd work. I'd have both kinda motives – and everybody wins. Huh?"

Well. Heyes can make anything sound logical. I've heard dumber ideas. Except of course for the one big problem.

"If we could just get our amnesty, Kid…"

Yup. That's the one big problem!

"That last message from Lom was kinda hopeful, huh?"

Well…

"It's been…"

Yup. That's how long it's been. I do know.

"I think this summer is THE summer, Kid. I can feel it. I just…"

Heyes does get like this. Every so often he convinces himself we're weeks away from being clear. So far he's been wrong, BUT, be fair, one day he'll be right. I hope. Please. 'Cos even if I've not quite made it into 'I wanna do something worthwhile for the love of a good woman' sapsville, I wanna stop running, stop lying and do SOME dang thing!

He tails off on the amnesty. More thinking. "This week, I've acted like a jackass."

"Yeah, we covered that."

"'Course, if this was a dime novel, this'd be the time a few villains rode into town and kidnapped the doc. I'd come up with a plan to rescue her from a fate worse than death. She'd see how brave I was, how strong, how resourceful. I'd win her undying gratitude. She'd patch up whatever wound you'd picked up in the fight…"

Huh? How come I'm getting the wound and he's getting the gratitude?

"She'd melt into my manly arms…"

I press my stomach as if to settle the heaving. "Please, Heyes. I just ate."

He grins. "You don't reckon the bad guys are on the way to make me look good, huh, Kid?"

"Better hope not. We'd probably know 'em. Then we won't look good. We'll look like we're ridin' out fast as we can!"

"Yeah, guess so!"

---oooOOOooo---

**LATER THE SAME DAY**

**NARRATTED BY NELL**

I am home. I am booked at the salt mine tomorrow and it is equidistant from Aunt Miriam's place and town, so home is perfectly convenient. Besides, the Coopers saw so much of me last week. I must show some mercy!

I have planned a nice, messy, job to take my mind off – off everything.

I am sitting on the steps of the side entrance, pulling on the pair of sturdy old boots I wear to do anything potentially muddy, when I see a familiar, slim figure trot over the crest and toward the house. Him. What does he want? He is part of the 'everything' I want to take my mind off.

He dismounts, loops his reins over a fence, pats his horse's neck and… Oh, bless. A tiny part of my irritation fades. He pulls out what must be a clothes brush from his pocket and dusts down that dreadful brown suit he seems to have purchased for 'best' together with the regrettable derby. Tatty as it is, the black thing he usually wears suits him so much better. He rubs the toe of each shoe against the rear of the opposite trouser leg, uses the brush for one last clean up back there, tucks it away, straightens his tie, takes something from the front of his saddle – oh, bless again, it is flowers – squares his shoulders and begins to stride toward the front door.

A movement on my part, I am picking up my basket of tools and my hat ready to go...

You did not think I would change my mind and stay in just because HE called, did you? Shame on you! I said a tiny part of my irritation had faded. I have plenty left!

Anyhow, something catches his eye and he realises someone is down by the side entrance. He changes course, looks, sees it is me, veers off the main path and comes around. The brown hat is swept off, so that is one improvement.

I brace myself to respond to any more nonsense if it is offered.

"Good evening, Doctor Meredith."

"Good evening," I respond, coolly.

"Doctor Meredith," a deep breath is drawn in. Pause.

Oh, well, if we are going back to him looking as if he were about to say something and nothing coming out, I have better things to do. I hook my basket firmly over one arm, say, "If you will excuse me," and turn on my heel.

"Doctor Meredith," his voice is gruff, "…I've come to apologise. I acted like a jackass this morning and you were right to be angry. I acted like a jackass at the Buchanans' and about that dance too. Though, there – I ended up cutting off my nose to spite my face, huh? Anyhow, I came to apologise – er - what's the word when you're not making no excuses?"

"Unreservedly," I supply.

"That's it. I apologise unreservedly. And I was wondering – can we pretend last week never happened? Can we pretend I've JUST come back to Arcadia – right now? Can I have another chance to – y'know – be friends?" This is not easy for him; not easy at all. "Do you believe in folk getting a second chance, ma'am?" He looks at me, earnestly, as he asks this.

I do not want to play games. Not even the mildest of 'trying not to be too obvious' games. Not after he has, so to speak, laid his cards on the table. "Yes," I say. "Yes I believe in second chances, yes, you can have one and yes – let's pretend you have just returned to Arcadia."

I do not know what a second chance with me means. A chance of – what? I only know… I only know… I do not know anything. Except, 'yes'.

Probably 'yes'.

I don't know. Why is life suddenly so much harder than diagnosis? I can DO that!

"These are for you, ma-am."

The bunch of wildflowers is handed over.

"All yellows! I like yellow."

"Yeah, I remembered."

"Thank you. Hannah!" I run up the steps and call into the kitchen, "Hannah, could you put these in water for me? I don't want to mess up your floor with my garden boots."

"Evening, ma'am," he murmurs to Hannah. Joshua's hat twists in his hands, showing even he, usually so self-assured, can be discomposed, as the flowers are collected and he is subjected to an openly curious once-over.

"Now, ma'am. I know I can't say 'let's us two go out to dinner', but I'm not used to all the do's and don'ts when it comes to – well, to – to…" He lets that sentence dangle. "Would you AND your Aunt care to go to dinner? My treat. To celebrate second chances."

"No thank you, Mister Smith." His face falls. I leave what I hope is a perfectly timed pause, before going on, "…Mainly because we have both eaten already. One dinner per evening – possibly with two helpings of pudding – is my limit.

He smiles. He is, I think, relieved my refusal has nothing to do with any residual hard feelings from this morning.

"Besides, do I LOOK as if I'm dressed for wining and dining in the nearest Arcadia gets to somewhere fancy?"

He takes a good look at my clumpy, thick-soled, boots, old snagged stockings, well pinned up faded skirt, scarf wrapping my hair under the hat and the sleeved hessian pinafore with an execrable appliqué of mustard yellow honey-bees. I bought this in a fit of cheerful bad taste as the very thing for gardening.

"You sure don't," he says. Realising this is less than gallant, he adds, "…Not that you don't look fine in anything, ma'am."

Well! I would need to resemble my namesake whose face (and presumably figure) launched a thousand ships and burnt the ancient towers to look good in this!

He stares, again, at the bobbled cotton ankles rising out of the well-worn leather. (I do not mind this. Modesty aside, I have very good ankles. It is only above the knee my legs could do with alteration. A few inches ON the length and OFF the width.)

"Ma'am, what the Sam Hill ARE you dressed for?"

"Rooting up and replanting marsh lilies." Pause. A touch self-consciously I add, "Aunt Miriam had a flower garden – plus pond – made, to remind her of home. I like pottering around. It's relaxing. One of those tasks you can lose yourself in."

"May I help, ma'am?"

"You'll get your best suit awfully muddy. The clue's in the word 'marsh'."

"I'll risk it. May I help?"

"Thank you. I'll root, you can pass."

As I lead the way, he says, "If you need – y'know – to invite a third, I won't sulk and stalk off."

"No, Mister Smith. Casual strolling – even rooting and passing – without a chaperone in a domestic garden, is fine. Particularly as…" I nod back at the house, "We can be seen from at least half the windows." He follows my glance, sees my aunt watching us from the drawing room, with Hannah beside her – both consumed with curiosity. "You had better go say 'Good Evening' to Aunt Miriam," I say, "…Then come join me."

---oooOOOooo---

"Deeper. You need to dig down to three times the depth of the bulb," he instructs, confidently.

I look up at him, "Where did you learn so much about plants?"

A pause.

"On the farm I grew up on. In Kansas. My folks were farmers."

Good heavens! That is the first spontaneous piece of information about his background he has ever given me! Ann and I never got far with the civil questions, so it is not far off the first piece of information, period.

"Are they…?"

"Yes," he interrupts, "…All of them. During the War."

"I'm so sor…"

"It was a long time ago." He squelches three paces to the left. "What do you think? A clump of five here? Or seven? You said odd numbers."

The face that smiles over at me is deliberately dimpled. Fair enough. For him, I think, volunteering anything about his background is a big step. No need for me to poke around in his worst memories.

We stick to rooting and replanting for a few minutes. My mind reverts to what nagged at it for all those weeks after he left.

"Mister Smith?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I never asked why you left town." A pause. It seems long to me. Maybe it is not, but it seems it. "I haven't asked why you came back either." I keep my eyes on the root I am wrestling with. "Do you want me to?"

This pause is definitely long. I bite my tongue – that is not a metaphor; I mean I actually hold it between my teeth – to stop me being the one to break the silence.

"No," he says at last. "Because I kinda don't want to say and…" He meets my eyes for the briefest of moments, then looks away, rubbing his nose with a very muddy hand. "I don't want to – to spin you a tale…" He seems to realise this is skirting the word. He takes a breath, "I don't want to lie. Not to you."

Does he lie? I know he is evasive, but that is hardly the same thing.

Has he lied to me? I would hate that. Hate it!

I do not think he has.

But if he lies he'd be good at it.

I take a deep breath. Deciding not to play games any more, not even the 'man leads, woman follows' game is not easy. Sheesh, even the game is not easy – but at least it lets us females only have to react, not write the scenes. "I have made guesses. Would you like to hear them?"

Men are not SO very different to women. If HE had asked ME that, I would have to hear! Have to!

"Sure," he says, trying to sound light-hearted.

"Guess number one: on the night you left – after I threw myself into your arms, you believed I was – to use a vulgar phrase – head over heels about you. You didn't return my feelings and decided the most gentlemanly option you had was to leave."

He does not meet my eyes this time, he squelches to the next spot and pushes back a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead, leaving yet more dirt streaks on the face I long to wipe clean and… And kiss.

"I'd hafta have a pretty high opinion of myself to believe that, ma'am."

"And, since you came back – THAT guess cannot be right, or at any rate, cannot be the whole story."

"Kinda a shame. It was making me look pretty dang good."

"Guess number two: you realised…" Another deep breath for me. Come on, Helen. What's the worst he can do? I suppose he could laugh in your face – but he won't, will he? And if he does, so what? This time next year you'll have forgotten all about it. Well, not next year – but say in ten years time. "You realised YOU were falling for ME. You thought a – again, please forgive the vulgar phrasing – a 'lady' could have no future with a drifter relying on casual jobs. You thought you'd get over me if you left. You found you were wrong. That's why you came back."

I dare not look up. It is weak, but I dare not. If he is laughing at me, I WILL still hold up my head high tomorrow, I WILL get over it, but… Oh, please, do not let him laugh.

When he speaks, he is NOT laughing, his voice is all choked, "I reckon we agreed once before, ma'am, you're right 'bout most things."

I dare to meet his eyes, again. Just for a second, but…

Oh, yes! Yes!

The expression is full of surging hope! Joy!

Yes!

Then, suddenly, we both turn. Aunt Miriam is walking out towards us calling, "How muddy you both are! Would you care for a little refreshment before you go, Mister Smith? You will not be offended if I put down newspaper for you to walk on and ask you to sit in the kitchen? I won't come any closer – I have pale shoes on."

The man who told me his folks were from Kansas and that he could fall in love with me – he did say, that, didn't he? - is gone.

The charm and the dimples and the smile are back. He is being wonderful with Aunt Miriam – coming in – making conversation – saying goodbye – leaving. And, we do not have one more second alone together.

---oooOOOooo---


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN **

**TUESDAY – NARRATTED BY NELL**

I spend far longer at the salt mine than planned; then over to the Miller place; then the Jones' place (not THAT Jones, obviously). Everything takes longer than planned.

If Mister Smith calls – IF – I will not be there. At this rate I will be lucky to make it home in time for dinner.

As I walk home, I run through my week. Tomorrow evening is booked with Ann. So, if he calls, I will not be there AGAIN. Thursday there is a meeting of the Ladies Committee and I stay over at the Coopers. Friday is the School Exhibition and Louise will be hurt if I do not attend. So will the lad who dreams of being a doctor and who I help with extra studies after class twice a week. That brings us round to the weekend, when he can call on my Aunt and make conversation without us actually having a chance to talk properly…

I realise just how lucky we were those three weeks in May. I suppose I also realise how lucky I am to have fought to earn my keep. Most women from my background have little choice but to marry a virtual stranger around whom they spin a consoling romantic image. How can you get to know someone with whom it is a struggle to find opportunity for private converse?

I think about tomorrow night with Ann. I suppose I could… Would she mind if…? She wouldn't mind – would she? We could rearrange…

I am heading past the turnoff to the Foster place. I slow. It is nearly three weeks since I visited. I do not WANT to go. There is the smallest chance if he HAS called, he is still with my aunt. If I go see how Mrs. Foster is doing, I will definitely miss him. I am under no obligation to the Fosters. I am not expected. They have had so much of my time over the year – all free since Mister Foster drinks more than he works – they have no cause for complaint.

There is nothing to stop me walking straight past.

Nothing except my conscience.

D*mn!

D*mn and blast and bloody hell!

As I stomp, grumpily, towards the tumble-down shack I wish EITHER I was one of those heroine types in books who seem to actually find virtue to be its own reward and perform good deeds all the while wreathed in a sweet angelic smile; OR one of those real life women who never seem to feel their 'duty' includes things they dislike and who confine their charity accordingly.

After spending time with Mrs. Foster - exhausted and ill from fifteen pregnancies and tied to a man who is within his legal rights to risk it becoming sixteen anytime he chooses and, if she leaves, to stop her seeing her nine living children ever again and to have her dragged back and thrown in jail for stealing the clothes on her back - I relinquish any idea of giving in to temptation and postponing the work Ann and I have planned for tomorrow. It is too important. I have just been reminded how important.

More important than Joshua Smith.

More important than – well, more important than me being happy.

By the time I trail wearily away, I feel so wrung out I do not even want to see Joshua Smith.

Anyhow, there will be other days.

BUT, when I approach home, a slim figure rises, stiffly, from the rock it is sitting on and, leading the horse which had been peacefully grazing, comes forward to meet me.

And I know I was lying to myself before. I do want to see him. I do. I do.

"How long have you been waiting there, Mister Smith?"

"Feels like hours. And hours before in your aunt's parlour. Not that I was the only one. Will Rutherford sat there until five thirty, both of us watching the door and each other like cats at a mouse hole." Pause. "He gave up when your Aunt dropped a hint by asking if her clock was right as it sometimes gained."

"And you clung on? Poor Aunt Miriam. She only says that when she is quite desperate for visitors to leave!"

"I guess Rutherford has better manners, huh?" Pause. "He seems a nice fella."

"He is. Very nice. I don't think I've ever heard him say a mean word about anyone." A qualm shakes me. Surely Joshua does not think… There is nothing between Will Rutherford and me. Unless… Will Rutherford does not like me THAT way, does he? I thought he was just being friendly. Surely he must realise I would never be interested in… The thought 'I am too good for him' (by which I really mean too intelligent; no way am I too 'good' for Will, if anything he is too 'good' for me) is terribly arrogant. But – you know what I mean.

"Will Rutherford," I blurt, "You do know I'm not… We're not…" I stop myself. I should not have said that. Will IS nice and it is not fair to talk about him. I should not assume he is interested – though, now I think about it, I guess I kind of realise he IS.

HE grins. It would look smug if he did not have that extra helping of charm. "Sure I know! You're far too busy being – whatever it is you were going to say – about this Joshua Smith fella."

I should look affronted, but I don't. I can't! It's true! I am!

"Which just goes to show, ma'am, there's no accounting for taste. NOW, since this Joshua Smith fella hung about for hours just to spend five minutes or so walking you home, he better get on and do it!"

"I was thinking the same thing!" I say. "Of course, I thought it first – because this Joshua Smith fella can be slow on the uptake!"

"I don't know what you see in him, ma'am."

"Me neither. Yap, yap, yap… And have you tasted his coffee? Mind you, his friend is charming."

"Hey!"

"He once stripped the willow with me…"

"HEY! Anyhow – what the Sam Hill IS that?"

When we reach the gates, he asks, "Can we… can I come in?"

I hesitate. Hannah would talk. She will anyway about yesterday. But two evenings running and him waiting for ages in the road just to see me… If it was not for my work I would not care. But I do care. I DO!

"Er…"

"Okay, that's a no," he says. "Can we stroll back and then walk home again?"

I can't! It is getting dark. If I am seen walking AWAY from home... Over by the stables a couple of the men are still working. A head turns towards us; a friendly hand is waved in greeting to me. I cannot just turn round and walk away again without raising comment. The wish to be alone with Joshua is so sharp it hurts. I do not want to go in. But, I have to! I have to.

"I have to go in. I'm sorry. I have to."

"When can I see you again?"

He knows Friday. And he knows I'll get Ann to invite him again. And he knows…

"I'll show up at all the town events and supper with your friends and make calls on your aunt and I'll quit with all the dumb sulking. I don't wanna do anything stupid to ruin things. I just wanna… Come on, ma'am, throw me a bone here. When can I SEE you?"

He means alone. I know that. He knows I know that.

"I don't know."

He catches the edge of distress in my voice. "I'm not trying to push you into anything you don't want. I only wanna – y'know – talk and be together."

Ask me to marry you, then! Ask me now and I'll say 'yes' however stupid and impossible it is. Ask me. Once we announce it, we can see each other almost alone. Ask me, get a steady job and let's get married. Any job will do. Together with my salary it would be enough. I'll forget all the things I have ever said about marriage being the biggest risk a woman ever takes. Ask me.

Good heavens! Did I just say all that out loud? To you I mean. I am not yet so far gone I would say it to him!

"Will you…?"

Yes? Yes?

"Will you let me walk you home tomorrow?"

What use is that? I am not coming home tomorrow!

---oooOOOooo---

**FRIDAY**

By the time I finish work on Friday I am almost screaming with the frustration of not seeing Joshua Smith. Well, I am SEEING him all the time. He drank coffee with me at Ann's place – and Charles talked to him about the paper ALL the time. He carried my and Jenny Cooper's parcels from the general store. He held an umbrella over Ann and me as we came out of the Ladies Committee in the rain last night. He and Mister Jones joined Sally Cooper, her fiancé and me for lunch at the hotel. Now we and Thaddeus Jones, who I suspect is no longer surprised at all the stuff he is being roped into, are helping Louise Skinner and her pupils set out chairs for the school exhibition.

Exactly.

I would cheerfully accept an invitation to hang upside down in a dung-strewn dungeon swarming with rats, if I could only do it as a twosome.

Idea.

"Miss Skinner," I say. (Pupils present, I do not say 'Louise'.)

"Yes?"

"That map would be much more effective if you could pin it higher."

"I'm on a table and stretching now!"

"All the same. Mister Smith?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Would you fetch the stepladders from the outside storeroom, please?"

"Er…" He glances at the map which, to tell the truth, looks fine.

"They're very heavy and I'm sure very dusty," demurs Louise. "Is it worth it?"

"Yes!" I say, firmly.

"No problem, ma'am," accepts Joshua Smith.

Once the door closes behind the slim figure. I tap something metallic – actually a stray medicine spoon - in my skirt pocket. "Oh! He'll need the key!"

I do not say I HAVE the key! That would be a lie, since I hung it back on the hook where it belongs when we fetched the extra chairs. I scamper out before Louise can open her mouth.

The brown eyes widen when I bounce into the storeroom and shut the door behind me, leaning on it to stop us being disturbed.

"This following the rules is no use at all," I explode. "I want to BE with you! If we can never be alone for more than a few moments together I shall… I shall… I shall simply burst!"

He blinks, then grins, "Sounds messy…"

"Shut up. We've only got a minute. I cannot be seen to engineer opportunities to be alone with a man. The people who oppose the work I try to do for the WSA would simply make too much capital out of my being caught in an improper position. We'll have to meet alone by happy co-incidence."

"I'm not sure trappin' me in a storeroom's gonna look real co-inciden…"

"Shut up and listen! I haven't finished! I always take a brisk walk before breakfast. People know that because it's one of the things I recommend to patients. Slipping out at night would be stupid, but morning is different. It ISN'T something anyone could say started because of you. If I set out earlier I doubt anyone would even notice. Hannah's busy. Aunt Miriam's never up with the lark. I'd be walking BACK to the house the same time as ..."

"I get the gist. Where and when?"

"Tomorrow. By the lake. If we are unlucky enough to be seen, well, I go there anyway. You spotted it as a good place to exercise your horse. There's a boathouse on the edge of …"

"Uh huh."

"Don't forget to bring the steps! Now I mean. Not tomorrow."

"Nah. Hefting them along tomorrow'd kinda cramp my style." I turn to leave, he catches my wrist. "You're sure? It won't seem – improper?" He uses my own word with a smile, but there is a serious edge. He really does NOT want to spoil things for me.

"How can a coincidence be improper, Mister Smith?" I deadpan. "Impropriety postulates intention, which coincidence precludes."

A moment passes. His smile broadens, dimpling his cheeks, "I love it when you talk dirty, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

**VERY EARLY SATURDAY MORNING**

Waking up extra early was no problem at all, mainly because I did not sleep last night!

I must have been MAD yesterday!

Did I really tell him I'd burst if I didn't see him?

I did, didn't I?

Have I NO shame?

More to the point, have I no vocabulary? Burst, forsooth!

What was I thinking? What must HE be thinking?!

Suppose I embarrassed him so much, he does not come? How will I ever look him in the face again?

He will come – won't he?

He will. I know he will.

He…

I want to say 'he loves me', but…

Sometimes I am very, very sure it is true. Sometimes not.

I am almost sure he will come. That is not my main worry. Though when I picture myself waiting and waiting and waiting, watching the hands of the watch pinned to my dress creep slowly round, waiting and...

My MAIN worry is what will happen when - if and when - he DOES show up!

I shut him in a storeroom, then I asked him to…

Asked him? Ordered him more like! I ordered him to meet me at a secluded boat house!

What will he think? Suppose he thinks…

IF I have led him to anticipate more than – well, conversation – I must correct that immediately.

As I hurry along, trying to avoid breaking into a trot in case he is there first and sees me looking indecently keen…

Not that he will be there first. I am FAR too early.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

As I hurry along, I put the finishing touches to my opening speech.

"Mister Smith, I may have inadvertently misled you as to…"

No.

"Mister Smith, I would like to make it clear that while I do want us to have a chance to become better acquai…"

No.

"Mister Smith, I trust you have not misunderstood the purpose of this meeting…"

No. No. NO!

"Mister Smith, noli me tangere!"

For heavens sake!

"Mister Smith. Let me ramble at you in convoluted and pompous sentences which completely fail to express my meaning and, when I have finished being inarticulate in English, let me switch to being appallingly clichéd in Latin!"

I will forget the speech and simply make it clear by my behaviour that we are there only to talk, I am not wanting him to – well – to kiss me, or – or anything.

Suppose he does not even show up?

He will not be there yet, that is for sure.

If only I had not set out SO early.

He will not be there.

I round the corner and…

There he is.

My breath catches. Standing there, in the hazy dawn light, silouhetted against the glimmering lake behind him, jacket off, hands on those slim hips, face breaking into a beam of pure pleasure when he sees me…

He is…

He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

For what seems ages, but can only be seconds, we stare, frozen, at each other.

Then, forgetting everything – because in that moment nothing else matters - I break into a sprint and run straight to him, to be folded safe in his arms.

"I thought you wouldn't come…"

"'Course I came. I thought you might not…"

"Don't be silly… I promised…"

"I thought you mighta changed your min…"

"I should have. I never should have… Oh, Joshua…"

"Hey…"

And THAT, believe it or not, probably reads as more articulate than it sounds. Partly because I have omitted most of my unforgivably wet 'ohs' and his comforting 'heys' and, partly because my voice is all muffled by my face being nestled into his shirt and his obscured by the fact he has already tossed aside my hat and has his lips buried in my hair, nuzzling me in between every word he says.

The grip hugging me relaxes just a shade, one arm is brought around the front. Those finely tapered fingers take gentle hold of my chin and raise it. He searches my face, reading what I want, checking that I do want…

He is going to kiss me.

He would stop if I gave any sign I did not want him to...

Any of the draft first lines of my prepared speech would do.

A simple 'no' would do.

A shake of the head.

I say nothing. I do nothing.

Unless you count the trembling. I am trembling all over, quivering against the hard wall of his chest and there is no excuse, none; it is not cold.

Please let him be going to kiss me… Please.

Perhaps he won't. Perhaps he will be too chivalrous.

His forefinger is stroking my cheek; the caress so soft my skin is not touched, only the fine down upon it stirred. Gentle, slow strokes as the dark eyes question mine. His thumb traces the line of my chin, an almost imperceptible pressure parts my lips. I can feel the warmth of his breath as…

The most delicate, featherlight brush of his mouth on first my bottom lip, then top, then both.

The brown gaze checks this is what I want.

His face dips again.

I am kissed – and kissed – and kissed…

A whimpering, thankful sound gurgles in my throat. I fling my arm around his neck and kiss him back, all the pent up frustration of those waiting weeks spilling out, pressing closer and closer and harder and…

"Hey," he breaks away, "…Steady. I bruise like a peach you know." There is laughter in his voice but I do not think that is the only thing making it shake as he smiles down at me. "Do you always risk knocking men over backwards?"

"I don't know, I've never kissed a man befo…"

Oh! Is he saying I am bad at this?!

---oooOOOooo---

"So, dumb-dimples, this implication that I'm bad at kissing – do you take it back?"

"I never SAID that!"

"Hence my careful choice of the word 'implication'."

He is laid on his back, hands linked behind his head, grinning up at me. I sit beside him, on the discarded jacket to avoid any tell-tale stains.

"Would I, under any circumstances, imply any beautiful woman – or even you… Ow! Would I imply you were bad at kissing?" Perfectly timed pause. "I mighta implied you needed a few lessons from an exp… Ow!!"

I lean forward, push back a straying lock of dark hair, slip my fingers behind his head and kiss him. A proper, long, lingering kiss.

"Any complaints about that?" I breath into his ear, letting my lips tickle the lobe.

"Not one. But I'd never deny you were a quick study. OW! Which bit of 'bruise like a peach' did you need help with?"

"The bit where I was supposed to give a…"

"Hey!"

A pause. He smiles up at me. I smile down at him.

The sun shines. Bees buzz. Birds twitter. I am so happy I could burst into song.

Relax.

I do NOT burst into song.

I check my watch. Oh no! Time cannot have flown so quickly!

"I have to go."

He rolls over, props himself up on one elbow. "Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale and not the lark. No, strike that. Rewrite for lake side. It was the bullfrog and not the ruddy duck …" Tanned fingers reach out, catch my wrist, "Don't go. Not just yet."

"I have to."

"Five more minutes?" He pulls my hand toward him. "Five…" A kiss is dropped on the palm. "More…" His mouth moves to the delicate hollows where the thumb meets the wrist. "Minutes?"

I weaken, let my other hand stroke the nape of his neck, that place where the silken hair is so soft, so beautiful. I let my touch stray beneath the ink-blue collar…

"Joshua, I ought to go…" Good heavens! I sound assertive as a piece of wet lettuce.

He undoes a sleeve button, lets his nose nudge aside the material, lets his lips brush the sensitive flesh of my inner arm. I…

I want to write 'I melt', which would be the romantic way of putting it. Certainly parts of me are already melted, liquid with longing, damp with desire.

"D'you really want me to stop? Really?" The exploring mouth whispers this against my skin, his warm breath tickling the…

"It's not fair!" I explode, pushing him away. "You know perfectly well I don't WANT you to stop! I WANT you to carry on. I WANT you to peel off my clothes, push me back onto the grass and for us to have mad, passionate, unbridled…" I hiccough over the right word, guilty indulgence in cheap fiction at bath time colliding with medical texts. "Congress," I finish, limply.

A pair of brown eyes look up, laughter already beginning to chase away his surprise.

"Well, I was planning on joining Thaddeus in time for breakfast, but – if you insist…" A pretend puzzled frown, "Congress does mean what I'm guessing? You're not asking for some kinda political debate?"

"I find you madly, ridiculously, unbelievably physically stimulating…"

"Guess you're only human, ma'am…"

"Is there any chance of you wiping off the smug look and listening for ten seconds together? You're the most exciting man I have ever met in the whole course of my life…"

"Can't say that's gonna be much help in wiping off the smug look…"

"Consider your masculine pride stroked. Let's both take it as read you probably COULD seduce me if you wanted to. Probably. Now, since I'm designating you officially irresistible, you can stop trying so hard to prove it. Instead, since I appear to be so ineffectual at the task working alone, why don't you help me out on the self-control front?" Pause. "Please."

His eyes soften. Then, an exaggerated sigh as he struggles to his feet and picks up his jacket, tossing it over one shoulder. The other arm goes around MY shoulders. "C'mon, I'll walk you to the end of the trees then make myself scarce in the opposite direction."

"Thank you."

Silent companionable walking for a few moments. I let my head rest against him. He smells of – of grass and clean cotton and warm skin and morning and sunshine and – and himself. Ambrosia.

"I hope you didn't think I fell for any of that guff you were giving me back there. Like I could silver tongue YOU into anything you didn't choose to do. Yeah right! I have played against a weak hand bluff before, y'know."

"I wanted to let you down easy. I hate hearing a grown man beg."

He grins. "You're all heart." Pause. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Maybe. If nothing better turns up."

"I've lost the novelty factor now, huh?"

"Same old, same old." Pause. No teasing in my voice now. "Thank you, Joshua. I mean it."

"Uh huh."

Silence. We are nearly at the end of the trees.

"You don't think…?" I stop. I want to ask and do NOT want to ask at the same time.

"Was there a question coming – or was 'you don't think' a finished sentence? If so, I hafta say it's kind of a rude observation, ma'am."

I spit it out, "Me letting you kiss me like that and – and touch me – you don't think I'm a – a hussy, do you?"

"Sure do. A brazen hussy." Perfectly timed pause. "Can't believe my good luck."

I do not laugh. He looks down, frowns. My chin is caught, my face lifted so I meet his eyes. "Hey. Y'know half of that was a joke, right? The other half was perfectly serious. I'll say the serious part real slow so it sinks in. I. Cannot. Believe. My. Good. Luck." A stray curl is tucked behind my ear. "Did you get that, Helen?"

Rather misty-eyed, I nod.

"Then put your hat back on straight and go finish your morning walk. Okay?"

---oooOOOooo---


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**ANOTHER MORNING – NARRATTED BY NELL **

"Surely the FACTS ought to speak for themselves…?"

"For a smart woman, you sure are dumb sometimes."

"Wha..."

"According to you, you and Ann've been trying to whip up publicity for this cause of yours for months. And it don't work 'cos the only ones reading what you put together are other folk already campaigning on the same sorta thing. They send pamphlets to you. You send pamphlets to them. You don't need me to tell you that's preaching to the choir, huh?"

"We don't only send the information to each other! Of course we distribute it more widely and we bombard – BOMBARD – the major journals with letters and articles…"

"Sure you do. But, for all you know, they don't even read 'em. They sure don't print 'em."

Silence. I want to say something really clever back, but since he is absolutely right, nothing springs to mind.

"Now, every piece you send, you've been loading 'em up with facts and figures, huh?"

"Of course."

"And because it's worked so well to date, you're gonna re-run the same tactics one more time?"

The logic of this sinks in. "I suppose you have a better plan?"

"Yup. Much better. It's the masculine brain, y'see," One finger taps at the dark hair. "Twelve percent larger, on average, so we're better fitted for thinking." Pause while my mouth falls open. "Has anyone ever told you, you look gorgeous when you gape like a fish?"

"Do I look gorgeous when I do this?" I thumb my nose and stick my tongue out at him.

"Yup. So gorgeous that I'm gonna hafta…" I let out a yelp as a hand slips under me and I am pulled hard against him.

"Let me g…" I shut up. It is hard to speak articulately when you are being thoroughly kissed. Even harder if you feel it only polite to show appreciation by joining in. Well! He may be flippant, but you cannot deny the man is punctual and not one to complain about a little early rising.

---oooOOOooo---

"…That could work," I admit. We are both on the blanket he brought to leave in the boat-house. He is propped on one elbow, smiling down at me. "It seems a shade – disingenuous."

"Is that Nell-speak for sneaky?"

"Uh huh."

He is right. I can see that. What is needed is 'human interest' – immediate, happening NOW, human interest - behind which a few facts can be smuggled through. Ann and I have tried to pull together suitably anonymous case studies, but they lack the immediacy of proper news.

A plan begins to form in my brain. He gave me some ideas – but this would be even better! This would be superb! If I dare… If…

Hmmmm?

Silent pondering. More silent pondering. Despite the ever-present danger of wrinkles, my forehead puckers up. I need to talk to Ann.

"Nell?" There is hair nuzzling going on.

"Uh huh?" I grunt, absent-mindedly. I say 'uh huh' all the time now! I must be careful. It must be so obvious where I have picked it up.

"Nell, are you listening?"

I drag myself back, I can work on my plan anytime. "Sorry, I was miles away. Uh huh?"

"Am I still supposed to be helping out on the self-control?"

Er. Yes, I suppose so.

I do not know.

If anyone sees us, arms wrapped around each other, my reputation is gone. I may not agree with the rules, but I cannot claim ignorance. Kissing a man to whom I am not officially betrothed - we are not talking a quick peck under a handy sprig of mistletoe here - brands me as a cheap little tart. No arguments. No excuses. No mitigation.

Part of me thinks, since I would be utterly ruined anyway, I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

"Why do you ask?" I murmur, once again doing my imitation of a wet lettuce.

If Joshua really, really wants me – maybe…

I will own up. I am wearing - something. Just in case. NOT planning. Just in case.

"Because…"

My neck is being kissed. I have not put on my starched collar yet, he can reach the curve of my throat.

"Because…"

Tiny nibbling kisses work back up to my ear. A curl, dangling over the lobe is softly blown aside to let his mouth move…

"Because, if I'm still expected to be all self-controlled…"

Nuzzle. Tiniest touch of tongue tip in my ear. Gentle nip to a lobe. A shiver runs down my spine. My heart pounds. Literally. Well, it would, wouldn't it? It is busy sending blood to all the parts of me currently throbbing with eagerness.

If this IS love – and whatever love means, I believe myself in it – should I not care more about making HIM happy than about myself? If the theory is you would happily lay down your life for the man you truly love, hesitating to lay down your – well – your chastity, seems a tad contradictory.

"IF that's what you want…" he murmurs.

Yes! I mean, no. No – yes. Er…

Help!

"…I'm gonna hafta ask you to move your hand."

What? I drag my gaze away from those melting brown eyes, look down at my right hand which is absent-mindedly resting on…

Oh!

I snatch it away. The pounding blood diverts to my flaming face.

"Sorry!" I blurt. "I am SO sorry!"

"Not a problem, Helen." A wicked grin, "Believe me, it was my pleasure!" He sighs, once again searching my face, "I take it that pole-axed expression means you had no idea what you were doing and I DO hafta stick with the self-control?"

Does he?

You see the thing is; a woman deciding marriage is tainted with the whiff of a commercial transaction and concluding she believes in free love can be seen (I suppose) as an admirably emancipated radical, risking all for her principles.

At any rate, it is the kind of argument a hypothetical over-educated, self-excusing, throbbing with frustration, female doctor could make.

A man deciding marriage is not for him is merely – and I do know this is not exactly fair –looking for a little no-strings sex and risking absolutely nothing.

I want him to ask him to marry me.

However foolish it is, I will say yes SO quickly it will make his head spin!

I am so very, very, very nearly sure he loves me and wants to spend the rest of his life with me.

If only he would SAY so.

He is smiling down at me, stroking my face in the way I absolutely adore.

Ask me!

Please ask me. Please.

He does not. He kisses my forehead, helps me to my feet, walks me to the edge of the trees, says good-bye.

---oooOOOooo---

**YET ANOTHER MORNING – NARRATTED BY NELL **

"…Oughta make some story over the arrival of this new automated band saw and shifting lumber edger. Me and Charles have been trying to get an angle on it – Hey! There's a pun in there somewhere, 'cos one of the things the edger'll do is work on any angle. Anyhow, by itself it's kinda dull even though it cost…"

"Joshua…" I loose my stone. One – two – three – four – five skips across the water. I am getting better at this.

"Uh huh?" His stone leaves his hand, smooth as silk. Five – six – seven – eight. Eight! EIGHT! "Count 'em and weep. That makes fourteen thousand dollars you owe me! Like taking candy from a baby!"

We have decided it is not wise to – you know – embrace all the time. Pleasant, sure; wise, no!

"Do you ever think about…?" I take a breath. I really want this to come from him, but… Well, I suppose I can drop a feminine hint or twelve? "Do you ever think about the future?" Skip – skip – oh!

"Two!" he scathes. "TWO! There's critters living under stones can throw better'n that!" Six – Seven – Eight! Again! He was lulling me before! "That's twenty thousand dollars you owe me! The future?"

"Yes. The future. It comes after the present. I know it can be a difficult concept to grapple with, but try and keep up. By the way, I'm calling a smug smirk penalty on that last stone – that'll be twenty thousand dollar fine – so it's back to all square."

"Hey!"

"Do you want to incur an arguing-with-the-permanent-referee-penalty? Do you? I thought not." I take another breath. "We were talking about the future. We can't keep on meeting like this forever. Enjoying the dawn is one thing in midsummer; it's not going to be so much fun once winter comes round."

"Reckon not. 'Course, by the time winter comes you mighta won so much money off me, you'll be managing this hospital of yours in some big city. AND running for President. AND…" He skips a stone across the water, watches it closely. "…DEFINITELY not needing a man to complete you, because you're already a complete human being."

Did I say that? Good heavens, I am pompous! Perhaps I had had a glass or two of wine at the time. That is my excuse anyhow!

"I may not need anyone to complete me," I say, quietly, "but that does not mean my life cannot be made still richer by sharing it with someone special."

Pause.

I feel my cheeks burn as he plucks another stone from the ground and skips it. If he does not respond to that I will… Well, I suppose I will carry on, but with a paper bag over my head to hide my embarrassment.

The pause goes on. And on. He skips another stone. This time it is HIM taking the deep breath, as if he has finally made up his mind about something.

He turns to look at me. The face I have come to adore has no trace of the teasing look. He is about to say something. Something really serious. I can see it in his eyes. Is this going to be it?

"Helen…?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"There's something you oughta know."

Oh. That does not sound as if what is coming is him popping the question.

"Uh huh?" I encourage.

The silence lengthens. At last, he says, "I told you I lost my folks during the war."

"Yes," I say, softly. He's mentioned his mother since. Not about losing her. About how she loved to read. What she loved to read.

"After that, I got sent to a home. It was…" Pause. "There were a lot of kids orphaned round about the same time. A lot of kids, not a lot of folks left to care for them. Those that were left… Well, I guess, looking back, they had their own problems. You don't see that when you're twelve. You just see, so far as they're concerned, you're nothing more than one more annoying little snot-nose. Money was scarce. Food was scarce. And what there was, you never knew but what it might get requisitioned by one side or another." Pause. "There came a point when… I dunno. I guess I'd had enough of following orders, keeping quiet and chores that just got harder an' harder on the back as I got older. Anyhow – I ran off." Pause. "I was so cocky, so sure I could make it by myself."

"How old were you?"

"Too dang young to make it by myself. I - I hadta do stuff that…" Pause. "Times were pretty tough. Half the country licking its wounds, glowering at the other half. Lots of folk feeling cheated and… I wasn't…" A tiny return to the usual Joshua Smith. "I wasn't the suave, debonair, self-possessed charmer you see today. I was scrawny and stroppy and sulky and 'bout as pleasant to be around as any other scrawny, stroppy, sulky fifteen year old boy."

"Fairly ghastly then?" I smile. I press his hand. My brow puckers. "Wasn't Thaddeus with you then? I had the impression you grew up together?"

His eyes meet mine. They have an arrested look. Why? It seems an innocent enough question. When his answer comes, his voice is – I do not know – almost careful.

"Uh huh. We grew up together and were together in the home. Like I say, we – I did stuff that… We – I - we…" More than a pause. Silence.

"Are you saying this is why you started drifting job to job? You were running away, so at first you couldn't settle and apply yourself – and by the time you could, you'd become used to a roving life? Perhaps even trapped in it, as you had no respectable references?"

He is looking at me, searching my face. "Calling it a roving life might be kinda underselling it, Helen. I did a lotta things which, looking back, I'm not exactly proud of. I…" He stops. Eyes still fixed on me. A frown creases his forehead. It is as if he cannot make up his mind. About what? Is there more to come? Or is he worrying how I will react? Do I look too censorious? I do not mean to!

"Oh, Joshua," I – I cannot help it – I raise his hand to my lips, kiss the palm, hold it against my cheek. "I did guess that your past wasn't… I did realise you'd probably been guilty of…" I do not want to hurt his feelings by making it sound worse than it was. They were so young when they were left alone. "Of gambling and drinking to excess and…" I blush, "…exploiting disadvantaged women forced by circumstances into a life of prostitution. I can't help but realise that, at some point, you've become so used to the reaction a tied-down gun stirs, that walking around armed seems routine. Perhaps, at times – at first, there was even a little petty dishonesty…" I break off. His expression looks… I don't know. Perhaps disappointed? Or, more than that. Dejected? Oh, please! If my big mouth has ruined everything… "I am so sorry!" I blurt. "Joshua, I should never have said that. I only meant that when you first cast yourself adrift in the world, maybe you had to manoeuvre ways of getting a meal and avoiding the bill. I didn't mean to imply anything worse… " I take a deep breath. "Consider it my turn to apologise unreservedly. I should not have presumed."

"Helen. You've got nothing to apologise for. Sheesh. I wish the worst thing I ever did at fifteen WAS skip out without paying a bill, or rustle a chicken or liberate the odd apple pie left on a window ledge to cool."

"Joshua, you were still almost a child! What matters most is not what kind of youth you had, it's what kind of man you became."

If he looked dejected before, now he looks almost desolate. I see this only for a second. Then he sits up, turns away from me, stares over the lake. When he turns back, the dimpled smile has returned. He gets to his feet, holds out his hand. "C'mon. Time I walked you to the edge of the trees."

We walk. I slip an arm around his waist. I look up. Still smiling, but it does not fool me.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Are you worrying that …" deep breath, "What you were saying earlier; are you trying to tell me you're not good enough for me?"

IS that what is holding him back?

"I don't need to tell you. It's pretty dang obvious. I'm a no-account drifter, you graduated medical school fourth in your…"

"Third equal!"

"Third equal in your year. A man good enough for you'd hafta be – what – some fancy-pants lawyer, a professor, another doctor…?"

"Pfffttt! What would be the point of THAT?" I hug his waist, "Now, if you'd said, someone with a flair for using the written word persuasively, or a superlatively silver-tongued fund-raiser, or someone capable of swaying a crowd, or someone with a real flair for organising..."

He gets the gist. I hope.

"I guess that kinda fella'd be more use to you, huh?" Pause. "'Course, IF you found anyone that good – why the Sam Hill would HE settle for YOU?"

---oooOOOooo---


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**SUNDAY MORNING – NARRATED BY NELL**

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No." Since this is stretching the truth to breaking point, I change it to, "Yes, a bit." His arm tightens, protectively, round me, the hand gently stroking the curve of my flank, over and over. My hair is kissed. I snuggle in yet closer. "It doesn't matter."

"I don't want you to think I planned this. It just sorta – happened."

"I know. I was there – remember? – being half of what just sort of made it happen."

Silence. Except for the twitter of birds, buzz of insects and the steady beating of his heart under my ear, as my head rests upon the wall of his chest. My fingertips fondle the fine hairs damp with morning dew and sweat. I will think sensible thoughts later. Just now – bliss!

"Helen…"

"Uh huh?"

"It'll be better next time. Promise."

Better next time? Oh! Was it not good for him? I thought it was wonderful. Well, the part beforehand was utterly wonderful and the bit afterwards when he was touching me – there – THAT was beyond wonderful. Did I do something wrong in the middle, during the actual – er, congress - section?

"Wasn't it any good? Was it my fault? Should I have….?"

Good heavens! This is out loud! AND, someone has stolen my voice and replaced it with a scared-fifteen-year-old version! Joshua wriggles around so he can shut me up with a kiss.

"Yeah, it was all your fault! 'Cos if it hadn't been for YOU, I wouldn'ta been all fired up like a schoolboy and…" He grins, "Let's leave it at this; ONE, I'm real glad you don't have nothing to compare that performance with; and, TWO, believe me - it's gonna be a LOT better next time."

Oh. I think I know what he is talking about. I relax.

"Who says there'll be a next time? Maybe that was your one chance and you blew it!" I tease. Pause.

A hand, not one of mine, strays. "Wanna make next time right now?"

YES!

I sigh, "No, I have to go. I have work to do."

"It's Sunday!

"I know. But I promised Ann."

"Ten minutes? Anyhow, what the Sam Hill are you two up to?"

"Wait and see! I have to go."

"Charles knows you're plotting something too. Him an' me – we're gonna find out."

"You do that. I have to go."

"Five minutes?"

"Why, gee, Joshua! That sounds really tempting! Five whole minutes! What on earth would we do with the spare four and a half? Did you bring a pack of cards?"

"HEY!"

I sit up, reach over to collect a couple of abandoned garments. (That would be garments from an abandoned woman! Do you get it? Oh, never mind!) Joshua props himself on one elbow, plucks a long strand of grass and starts to chew; warm brown eyes linger on my body.

I bend to pull on a stocking. I glance over and hesitate. Laying flat is one thing. Everything falls into flattering place. This is…

"Don't watch!" I blush.

"Awww! Why not?"

"Because… Because…" I am searching for something sensible to say, when the truth blurts out. "Because I'm embarrassed about – about my size."

"Huh? I hafta break it to you, Helen, you're just as short with your clothes on."

"Not my height! My – my…" I search, "…my embonpoint." Blank look. Genuine I think. "My rotundity! My girth! This!" I wobble a roll. "YOU'RE laying there all lean and perfect and gorgeous – and look at ME!" Another wobble. Not an entirely honest wobble, I am sucking it in. I know, in theory, looks do not matter, but – they do, don't they?

"I am lookin' at you." He leans forward, hand outstretched towards my stomach, "…Can I do that?" The touch more of a caress than a wobble. He sits up too, bends to kiss the folds. "Anywhere else need attention?"

"You don't think I'm too fat?"

"Not for this." More exploring of soft areas by roving lips. "Maybe too fat for climbing through small windows…" Nuzzle. "Or ballet dancing, all that hefting the fellas hafta do …" Gentle lick. "Or the high-wire act. I mean imagine, bo.i.i.i., bo.i.i.i., bo.i.i.i.i.i.! Ow! Stoppid! OW! Leggo, woman! OW!" A laughing face looks up. He sees though I am trying not to look as if I lack a sense of humour, part of me does not find this funny. "Helen! Are you serious?! You're lovely. And, even if you weren't, you're the…" He stops.

"What? I'm the what?"

The love of his life? The one and only? What? Tell me!

"You know perfectly well, woman! Stop fishing! If you'd had reptile scales and a tail hidden under those petticoats, you'd STILL have my tongue hangin' out and drool dripping onto my boots! A few extra inches – sheesh – I call that a bonus. More to love, huh?"

Love! He used the 'L' word! He does love me then? He said so – didn't he? Well, sort of.

"Now, carry on and let me enjoy the view." He plucks another spear of grass, settles back. A smug smile dimples his cheeks, "So, I'm lean an' perfect an' gorgeous, huh? Would you care to expand on that? I need details."

---oooOOOooo---

"Joshua…" We are walking to the edge of the trees. It is like the other mornings – except, not.

"Uh huh?"

"You won't forget you and Thaddeus are due at Ann's for supper?"

"Nope. Seven for seven thirty. Wear the suit 'cos there'll be a few folks there, including your Aunt and you want me to keep on making a good impression… Isn't Ann getting a touch close to baby day to be throwing a party?"

"Not close, past. Baby day was yesterday. She says she wants something to take her mind off just sitting, waiting and watching Charles twitch like a cat on hot bricks every time she gets a twinge." I do not meet his eyes when I say this. It is true – but not the WHOLE truth.

"Uh huh," he grunts. "Okay. Where was I? Oh yeah, if your Aunt makes you sing, I'm not allowed to laugh. I'm not to say anything to annoy Mrs. Rutherford because it's not worth it. I'm not to scuttle off to a corner with Charles and bore on about the newspaper all night; I hafta mingle. If any of the ladies wear something low cut I'm to keep my eyes to myself or you'll show me how much pain can be inflicted with nothing but medical training and a sharp pencil."

"That would be a LOT of pain," I stress.

"Don't worry, I'm briefed." Sad shake of the head. "Talk about hen-pecked."

"I…" After what happened not fifteen minutes ago, I do not know why THIS is making me so tongue-tied. "I – you might find Aunt Miriam wants to talk to you." Pause. No reaction from him. "She - she knows about us. She asked and I told her."

Aunt Miriam had sat me down for a kind little talk about how attentive Mister Smith was becoming. How he might misconstrue my friendliness. How he might believe I returned his feelings. How it is not kind to let a man think you care for him – that way - if you have no intention of accepting an offer. And, of course, since Mister Smith was not 'quite, quite'…

Aunt Miriam is not a fool. She was being tactful. She knew I cared. She did not know how much. I doubt I knew quite how much until I told her, I DO return his feelings. At least, I return what I hope are his feelings. I love him. I am sorry, but if that means a breach between us – so be it. I love him. I love him. I love him. Surely she can see, whatever his background, he is… He is perfect for me. I love him.

She took my hand, told me nothing would ever mean a breach between us. Not ever.

Then, she asked if he had declared himself.

Oh dear.

There I was, all ready to defend my Romeo and my right to choose against all criticism and she had me squirming with the first question.

"You told her we've been meeting most mornings?"

"NO! I would never tell her that unless she asked EXACTLY the right question! You mustn't either! Never! She'd be so disappointed in me! She'd think I'm…" I stop.

Cheap? Stupid? Incapable of following wise advice? She would be right – would she not?

I stop wittering, start again with a fresh sentence.

"I told her we – like each other. That we are, I suppose one could say, courting. I had to. Well, I didn't HAVE to, no one ever HAS to do anything, but I did."

We are courting, aren't we? Please say something.

"I told Ann too. She's my best friend. So, I told her."

Silence.

"I told them both you're the most wonderful man I ever met."

When he speaks, his voice is husky, though the words are jocular, "They didn't fall for THAT guff, did they? Two days ago you told me I was an ignoramus who wouldn't understand an ironic passage if I walked down it wearing a miner's lamp on my hat!" He purses his lips. "Mind you, it explains why you've turned me down like a bedspread three times this week because you and Ann have got 'something important that you can't tell me about' to yap over."

Er, no, it does not, actually. But that is another story.

"Now I know I'M the something important you ladies need to lock yourselves away to discuss, I'll quit with the pouting next time."

He is trying to lighten the tone. I should say something teasing back. I should… I open my mouth and…

"I love you, Joshua." There! I said it first. I did not mean to – but, I did. Silence. "You're not angry are you?"

"It's not the first emotion that springs to mind, no."

"I mean – angry I told."

"No. I'm not angry." Pause. "I'm – I'm – Sheesh, Helen! You finally did it! You left me speechless!" We are at the end of the trees. He looks down, presses my hand. "I'll see you this evening. Goodbye."

And - he starts to stride away. I drop my hands to my hips and stare after him. What? WHAT? I cannot believe it! How dare he? Ten seconds later, he stops – apparently lost in thought, then spins on his heel and comes back.

"Just in case you need to hear it, I do too."

"You do WHAT too? Think you're the most wonderful man in the world?"

"No! Well, yeah actually, but I meant – the other thing you said AFTER that. Right back at you."

And, he is off again!

"Joshua Dimwit Ignoramus Smith!"

He turns, "Uh huh?"

"Call me sentimental, but when I indulged in girlish dreams of saying 'I love you' to a man for the first time, the reply I imagined was NOT a grunt of 'right back at you'!"

"I thought you'd wanna hear it."

"I DO want to hear it! Properly!" In case I have not made myself crystal clear, I add, "Get back here and say it, NOW!"

"Sheesh!" He begins to grin, "Women! Never satisfied!"

He strides back and catches me up in a hug so tight I squeak. I am kissed until I do the wringing wet, melting-helpless-in-his-arms act, then three little words – YES, the right three! – are murmured into my ear. Several times. With embellishments. Satisfactory embellishments.

"That do?" he asks.

"Uh huh." By now I am gazing up at him, I hope looking starry-eyed, but possibly the correct descriptor might be - dopey. I try to correct this. "Usually you would lose marks for repetition, but just this once, I will overlook it."

His voice becomes gruff, "I don't deserve you. You do know that, don't you?"

"Aw, Joshua!" I let the tip of my nose touch his. "Right back at you!"

---oooOOOooo---

Now.

I daresay some of you out there will want to reprove my behaviour this morning.

Possibly your reproof will revolve around lack of willpower, lack of moral fibre, lack of modesty, lack of… Let us admit it! Various virtues were tried and found lacking!

Possibly your reproof will be more pragmatic, centring on the generally held truth that: 'Sister! You want a man to buy your book? Don't open a free library!'

Possibly your reproof will consist of a good shake and yelling, "IDIOT! What were you thinking?!"

Let me plead guilty! I know, I know, I know, I know, I know!

Very shortly, I intend to take myself severely to task and spend an agonised sleepless night or two beating myself up.

I just need to stop walking on air first.

I love him. He loves me.

I am the most desirable woman in the whole history of the world!

I must be – HE loves me!

We will get married and spend the rest of lives together being… I cannot think of a word good enough!

I am SO happy that… Er… So happy that…

If I were you – I would go now, because, you know what I once said about you NOT having to worry about me bursting into song.

I lied!

---oooOOOooo---

**THAT SAME SUNDAY MORNING – NARRATED BY KID CURRY**

"…Where the Sam Hill have you been?" I push out a chair for Heyes. I've already wrapped myself around my morning portion of ham, eggs and tomatoes and am mopping up the last few licks of yolk with a hunk of bread.

"Nowhere."

He reaches for the coffee pot.

"Ain't that where you were yesterday mornin'?"

"Nope. Yesterday I made an early start to go cover a story out in Harper Grove."

"Uh huh?"

"This morning, I was simply taking the air. Anything wrong with that?"

"Yeah. It's Sunday. The one day of the week we don't HAFTA drag ourselves up before seven."

Since Heyes isn't shifting, I thought I'd better find me a job too. There's an extension to the lumber mill being constructed; I got myself taken on. Not that I've been there this week. Monday the foreman asked if I'd go with him and another fella to escort back this new machinery we're all busy building a home for. Guess he thought I looked used to travelling, huh? I went. It made a change from getting dragged along to one dang thing after another by Heyes. I kinda hoped that when I got back the novelty of hanging around respectable events for, if he was lucky, five minutes with Nell mighta worn off. No such luck.

The boss has offered to keep me on after the build finishes, if I want. 'S'okay. There's worse places to spend a summer. Friendly enough crew. Boss who treats folk fair and appreciates you showing a little initiative. In fact, it's a bit more than okay – it's kinda nice. I'm not saying I'd wanna do it forever – but, yeah, 's'okay.

"Guess some of us just don't need as much beauty sleep, Kid."

I look at him. An innocent smile beams back. Too innocent. "You've been with her!"

"Kid! Tchah!" The innocence becomes – what's the word? – oh yeah, outraged. Brown eyes reproach me. "Your mind!"

"Are you tellin' me you AIN'T sneakin' out to meet her?"

"Nope. I'm not."

"Uh huh." I narrow my eyes, search that poker face, "You sure?"

"Yup. I'm real sure I'm not telling you I haven't been out to meet her." Pause. "I'm also real sure I'm not telling you I have been out to meet her. I'm not telling you nothing. A gentleman, Kid…" A sad shake of his head. "…DON'T bandy a lady's name."

"Heyes…"

"Shuddup."

"Don't tell me to shuddup! I gotta right to say what I…"

"No. Shuddup – the sheriff's coming."

I twist my head around. Bill Fraser is, indeed, heading our way. We exchange a glance. Has someone said something? Has he been studying wanted posters? We haven't noticed any familiar faces, haven't been aware of anyone looking our way with dollar signs in their eyes. When we arrived two weeks back the sheriff made sure he ran into us on our first day, gave us a civil 'Howdy boys, you're back, huh? Staying long?' He let us know without actually putting it into words, he still had one eye on my gun and another on Heyes' card hand, but, as we'd never given a sniff of trouble in his town, our 'benefit of the doubt' was still in place. Since then, apart from one evening when he leant on the bar and thoughtfully watched a self-conscious Heyes playing blackjack 'gainst two fellas from the sawmill and a livery-hand in a game where the stakes never rose above a quarter, we've had exactly what we appreciate most from town sheriffs; indifference.

He don't look indifferent now though. He don't exactly look like a man coming to arrest two outlaws, neither. For one thing, sheriffs who know who I am, tend to have a gun drawn. I notice something else. Though I get a nod which I can interpret as 'G'morning', his attention is on Heyes. Again, this is kinda good. If we were about to get arrested – he'd wanna pick up the pair, not settle for a single.

"'Morning, Smith."

"Howdy, Sheriff. Fine day, huh?"

"Uh huh. Have you finished? If you have – can I have a word?" His eyes flick to me. "Private like."

A mute conversation between Heyes and me. It don't feel like he's wanting to split us up to make fastening the handcuffs easier, but – all the same…

"Me and Joshua," I say, keeping it friendly and remembering to smile, "…We're kinda partners. We don't believe in keeping too many secrets from each other."

"That go for you too, Smith?"

Heyes smiles too, no need to meet trouble more'n half way, huh? "I reckon so. What can I help you with, Sheriff?"

I can see Heyes' mind working. He's been doing nothing except what's honest and law-abiding. In fact, running round after Nell to civic events he's been pretty much a model citizen. He's kept to the 'no poker' rule. If Fraser was gonna object to friendly blackjack played for chicken feed, he shoulda done it a week and a half back.

"You can help me with this; what are your intentions towards Doctor Meredith?"

I blink. Heyes looks pole-axed. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that.

"Er…"

He's lost for words. Sheesh! Wish I had one of those cameras!

"Er…" He manages to get the smile back. "I'm not claiming to be no expert on the law, but – I hafta say Sheriff, I can't see how that's any of your concern."

A pause. I shift in my seat.

"Fair point," says Bill Fraser. He unpins his badge and slips it into his jacket pocket. "Until I put that back on, I'm not the Sheriff. I'm the man who was friends with John Hartleman ever since we were boys together. I'm the man he asked to look out for his widow – and her kin. The doc's got no Pa, no brothers. A fella might think he can mess with her without risking the horsewhippin' he deserves. Now, my favourite niece loves Nell Meredith like a sister, so, I've decided to promote myself to honorary uncle, just in case any situation calling for horsewhippin' comes up. You gotta problem with that?"

Heyes' turn to shift in his seat. "I guess not."

"Mrs. Hartleman, she has a lotta notions about social place and who can pair up with who. I dunno. Seems to me if a man works hard, earns an honest living and wants to court a woman fair and square, he's within his rights to try. So far as social position goes, it's up to the woman if that matters or not. It's not as if the doc hasn't the brains to work out what she wants. All I know is, the only options here are, courting fair and square or nothing. You do anything – anything - to hurt that girl, you answer to me. Understand?"

Nothing from Heyes.

"Ann reckons you're in love with Nell." Pause. Brown eyes meet grey. The brown drop first. Fraser's soften. "Well, I've known her be wrong about a few things over the years, but looking at your face, son, I'm guessing this ain't one of 'em."

Heyes opens his mouth. He shuts it again.

"Okay. Let's leave that at 'no comment'." He stands up. "I reckon I've said all I had to say." The silver star is pinned back on. He nods a goodbye to me and strides away.

Silence.

Forced laugh from Heyes. He rolls his eyes at the door through which Bill Fraser left and grins across at me, the smile not reaching his eyes.

I stare back, stony-faced.

"What's eating you, Kid?"

"What's eating me is – if I hadta pick sides right now, I'd be lining up behind the man who just left. If you hurt Nell Meredith, he's gonna hafta wait his turn to flatten you."

"Kid! I'm not thinking of hurting Nell!"

"That's the trouble. You're not thinkin' at all. Leastways, what you're thinking with is about three feet south of your brain…"

"Hey!"

"You heard him; for most fellas, there's two decent choices, courting fair and square or nothin'. We both know, you're not most fellas. Out of those, the only decent choice you have is nothin'."

Silence.

"She's not a safe, Heyes. Once you've cracked her, you can't slam the door shut, spin the tumblers and put everything back the way it was. Sooner or later, you gotta leave. Sooner or later, you hafta pick the nothin' option. You know that. The quicker you face it, the less she'll get hurt."

"Suppose…?"

"Uh huh?"

"Suppose – hypothetical like…?"

Oh, sheesh.

"Suppose, I pick the courting fair and square option?"

He is not looking at me. There's salt spilled on the table and he keeps his eyes on that, brushing it into a straight line with the tip of one finger.

"Okay. Let's think that through. You propose. She turns out to be dumber than she looks and, instead of laughin' in your face, says 'yes'. Aunt Miriam books the church. I write my best man speech, if'n I can think of anything civil to say. Nell walks down the aisle on the Sheriff's arm. The reverend starts the service. He gets to 'love, honour and obey'. We scrape Nell off the ceiling and the reverend stops while Nell climbs onto a soapbox and bores us all 'bout women's rights. The reverend restarts – this time with YOU promising to obey HER - cos why fight the inevitable, huh? You sign the marriage certificate… Hey, just as a matter of interest, are you plannin' on signin' your real name, or on marryin' under an alias? Marryin' under a false name won't be legal, which seems a mean trick to play on a girl you think anythin' of, but…"

"All right, Kid. You made your point." Pause. "Suppose I…?" He breaks off.

"Suppose you tell her who you are and ask her to wait?"

A nod, or maybe a shrug. Something between the two. The finger pushes the line of salt into a circle. His eyes stay on the moving grains.

"Could mean twenty years inside," I say.

Again with the shrugging nod, nodding shrug.

"That's pretty risky, Heyes."

The circle becomes a figure of eight.

"Pretty risky for me, I mean. Who ya gonna tell her I am?"

His shoulders droop as that sinks in. I know Heyes. He'll never give me away.

---oooOOOooo---


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**THAT SUNDAY EVENING AT THE BUCHANAN HOUSE - NARATTED BY KID CURRY**

"Did you do anything exciting during your trip to the city, Mister Jones?" asks Jenny Cooper.

"Not unless you think watching machinery get hefted from one train car to another's exciting, ma'am."

"Is it right the new saw weighs over a ton?" This is Fred Tammett.

"Yup."

"Oh," Jenny again, "I meant apart from that. In the evening. Did you go to an elegant restaurant? Or perhaps to a theatre? Or to a concert?"

"I did see some kinda show. I dunno you'd exactly call it – a concert."

"Did ya see the new tram system? Did ya ride on it?"

"I'd love to hear all about it, Mister Jones," she frowns at Fred. "The show I mean."

I doubt Jenny's hit seventeen yet, but she's trying her level best to sound all grown-up. At any rate, it dawns on me no way am I gonna describe the acts at the fancy bar we visited to her or to young Fred. Not that we're talking worse than gals singing songs with suggestive lyrics and other gals dancing wearing costumes, or should that be ALMOST wearing costumes that… Hey! A man needs a little relaxation, huh?

"Why don't I fetch you some more lemonade, Miss Cooper?"

"Oh, thank you Mister Jones. I'll come over with you."

This kinda defeats the point of me fetching it, but I'd hafta be dumb not to realise Jenny is starting to get sweet on me, so I'm trying to be nice without being too nice, if you know what I mean.

I pour lemonade for Jenny and something a touch more exciting for me, load my plate with more duck and apple pie (sounds weird but tastes great!); then, Jenny and Fred still following, I go join the group round Ann's easy chair. Heyes and Nell are already there. I've been gone for near on a week and I wanna see if anything's changed. If the Sheriff knows they're – whatever – other folk musta noticed too. Though – I dunno. They seem the same. She glows when he's around. He lights up when she walks in. But what they DO and what they SAY is nothing but friendly, respectable – the usual. They don't go sit in a corner. They don't even angle to get chairs together. They talk to other folk and don't let their eyes keep wandering. Heyes has spent mosta the time turning on the charm for Mrs. Hartleman. She's definitely looking at Heyes real – what's the word? - calculating is too much – considering? - thoughtful? Yeah, I'll leave it at thoughtful. It makes me think she's guessing things are getting real serious and she's weighing him up. From what I see though, if anything, Nell'n'Heyes act LESS noticeably sweet on each other now, than the week before last. Is Heyes more relaxed, 'cos he IS sneaking off to meet her, so he don't need to struggle to get five minutes attention when other folks are about? I dunno. Leastways, I'm not sure.

Over round Ann's chair, a discussion is in progress.

"Oh yes! Handing people over for money – well, that seems…"

"You mean, you'd like the motivation to be purely 'justice'…"

"You could refuse the reward…"

"Certainly one should not be motivated by it. But to turn it down! When I think of all the good that could have been done with the reward those bounty hunters rode away with."

"I agree. Refusing it would be quixotic beyond reason!" (You don't need me to tell you who THAT is speaking, huh?)

"I know I could find plenty of use for $2,000! Those drains at the orphanage are crying out for…"

"I agree there, Doctor…"

"Suppose one felt the law was misguided?"

"Even if we disagree with a particular law, Law itself is what keeps us from chaos…"

"Thaddeus, do come and join us," smiles Ann. "We are discussing a hypothetical question. If we know someone who had broken the law, which of us would hand them over and which of us would not?"

Sheesh! What the Sam Hill brought that up? I sneak a look at Heyes, catch him sneaking a look at me. Relax. Relax. These folk do like to yap over stuff just for the sake of yapping. Nothing for us to worry about.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ann and Nell are also sneaking a look at each other. Nell's expression looks kinda familiar. It's… I dunno, it's…

Her eyes flick, just for a second at Mrs. Rutherford.

Oh! It's the 'Hannibal Heyes: I'm a genius with a plan' smug look! Stick a tattered black hat on her head and she could double for him!

"It is the duty of every citizen to uphold the law." It's Mrs. Rutherford speaking. She has a smug look too. "Indeed, failing to report a criminal could be considered as complicity after the fact. Am I not right, Henry?"

Oh! I knew Rutherford Junior was here. He's still laying himself out to make a good impression on Nell. Though, from the droop to his shoulders when he watched her get the giggles over one of Heyes' dumb jokes – which wasn't even funny! – I reckon he knows his chances are pretty slim. I did NOT know the skinny, bald, quiet fella was Rutherford Senior.

"Er…" Rutherford Senior hesitates.

Actually, I don't think Ma Rutherford HAS got that right. She mighta caught the spirit of the law that folks hafta hand us in if they can – but she's not got the phrasing right. Mind you, what do I know? I don't really hafta worry over legal niceties, huh? For more years than I can remember I've been guilty as a fox in a henhouse and the only law I hafta follow is 'don't get caught'.

"Am I not right, Henry?" she repeats, firmly.

"Yes, dear. Substantially right."

Wise choice. If I was the poor sap married to that woman I'd save my arguing for things that mattered more'n that, too!

"And Henry," proud swelling from Ma Rutherford, "has been a lawyer for over twenty-five years!"

"So…" this is Nell, "You cannot imagine any situation, ever, where your sympathies with a criminal might prevent you handing him – or her – over to the law, Mrs. Rutherford?"

"If we are talking about imagining – we can all imagine a criminal who combines all the cardinal virtues and a motivation so selfless, that strong men would sob if it were acted upon the stage…"

Hey! She really CAN talk! No wonder Nell looks so mad after some of those Committee meetings. Maybe she loses the odd bout!

"Perhaps we should make the hypothetical case more concrete," suggests Charles. "Why not the Butler brothers? Who here would have handed them in?"

"Oh…" Ann sounds as if she is about to protest.

"Ann, are you… Was that…?" Charles is on his feet.

"Ma'am, are you feeling okay?" Sheesh! I am on my feet too. I sit down, feeling sheepish.

"All I said was 'oh'! I'm fine," she smiles. Another quick glance between her and Nell. Was that a shrug? Or – am I imagining stuff? "That's a good idea, Darling. Make the hypothetical question about those poor Butler boys. Would you have handed them in, Nell? If they had come to you under different circumstances?"

"Well, not if they had come to me injured. That goes without saying. A doctor's first duty is to a patient."

"Certainly," Doctor Cooper nods, approvingly. "Quite right!"

I admit to something dang like a wave of relief. Oh, no. Cancel some of the relief.

That means I was pretty safe from Nell if she found out who I was two months ago; I'm not so sure about now. And Heyes hasn't ever been a patient.

"So neither of you," Mrs. Rutherford again, "can imagine any circumstances whatsoever in which you might hand over a criminal who had come to you for treatment to the law? Ever?"

Nell opens her mouth to say 'no', then shuts it again. She gives a good-humoured smile. "I think you hoist me with my own petard there, ma'am. We can IMAGINE anything. We can imagine a criminal so heinous that it would be unforgivable not to stop his career if at all possible, even if it meant violating the spirit of one's medical oath. Charles is right. Even hypothetical questions need narrowing down."

"Stick with the Butler brothers then," says Ann. "They're nicely in the middle. No one can claim they were misunderstood models of virtue with spotless motives, but both you doctors agree they're a long way short of being so heinous you have to fret over treating them in confidence. Suppose you hadn't met them as patients, just met them some other way and found out who they were and what they'd done – would you hand them in, Doctor Cooper?"

"Probably. I'm not sure. I might have come over sentimental since they were about the age of my oldest boy. But, probably. My sympathies are more with the folk getting held up and robbed."

"What about you, Nell?"

"I think we already know the answer to that!" Mrs. Rutherford has answered before Nell can get a word in. "It was clear back in April and at the recent debate that YOUR sympathies were with the criminals, not the victims, Miss Meredith."

"Doctor Meredith," corrects Nell, civilly. "I think that was only natural, Mrs. Rotherham, since I met the criminals when they were frightened, vulnerable and in pain and I never met the victims at all. We sympathise with what we see – that's human nature. BUT, where you and Doctor Cooper are right, ma'am, is to remind me that although I didn't see their victims, they did exist… "

"The victims of the Butlers weren't… I mean, they robbed banks and trains and before that they rustled from cattle barons…" That was young Fred. He shuts up under so many grown-up eyes all on him at once.

Will Rutherford backs him up, "Yes, Fred. It's not as if they were stealing off ordinary folk… Banks and rail companies, they're hardly… And, they didn't shoot anyone, the Butlers, I mean… At least the reports seemed to… What I mean is… " Now he's floundering too as his mother glares at him. I reckon he's torn between contradicting his Ma in public and trying to say what he thinks Nell wants to hear.

"You both mean since the railroads and the big cattle men and the banks – and other forces of capital - spent the aftermath of the war and the depression of the 70s using the law to cheat ordinary working folk out of their land and goods, there is some justification for young men who felt dispossessed from society, turning against the laws of a country which did so little to protect their families and a system which offered them so little true opportunity and for striking out against those who seemed allied with their oppressors?"

That was Charles Buchanan. Sheesh. I glance at Heyes. He's staying very quiet. I don't blame him. This is getting far too close to home for comfort.

"Er – I guess," says Fred, confused. "I dunno. Not exactly 'justification', 'cos that'd mean… I dunno."

"What is your opinion, Mister Smith?" asks Ann.

"I think…" Heyes' face looks – tight, "The word Fred's looking for is 'mitigation'. Not a complete excuse, but some kinda excusing circumstances."

"There can be NO excuse," huffs Mrs. Rutherford. I reckon if Will was just five years younger he'd have had his ears boxed by now.

"I felt real sorry for Jed Butler when I saw him being taken away. He looked so scared," says Jenny Cooper. "I know there isn't really any excuse, but… Oh, I don't mean you're wrong, Mister Smith…" She goes pink.

"I wonder how young and how dumb he was when he turned to crime," says Heyes. "Would it make a difference to how badly you thought of him, ma'am?" He is speaking to Mrs. Rutherford, but that ain't who he's really asking, is it? Careful, Heyes, careful. Go back to staying very quiet.

"I certainly can't have much sympathy for the railroad companies getting robbed," says Louise Skinner, surprising us all by sounding real angry. "They cheated my father out of HIS land! They did! They're worse thieves than that poor boy we saw being carted off to jail!"

"Yes, but the answer to that is organised political pressure and…"

Oh shut up, Charles! No, he's okay, just – does he always have to sound as if he's drafting out his next leading article?

"The banks and railways having faults themselves doesn't really work as a mitigation argument though, does it?" says Nell. Heyes is all attention, though he pretends to be concentrating on setting aside her punch cup. "I can see how injustice and lack of opportunity can make young men angry and disaffected and I certainly take Mister Smith's point about the youth of the offender making a difference. If we all had to live with a choice we made at fifteen forever – where would any of us be? But Jed Butler wasn't holding up a railroad company, he was pulling a gun on a perfectly harmless train driver and on passengers…"

"He didn't shoot no one." That was me. Sorry, Heyes. Can't follow my own stay quiet advice.

"He frightened them into believing he might. He had to, otherwise they wouldn't have co-operated. That's the nub of giving orders at gunpoint – the threat of violence. I felt sorry for him after what happened to his brother, sure, and I want him treated decently, and given every chance to make up for the education he missed while he's inside and to turn his life around when he comes out, but it doesn't alter the fact a few months ago he was happy to hustle scared mothers and crying children and frail old people around at the end of the barrel of a gun to get his hands on easy money."

I bite my tongue. I could say he probably wasn't 'happy' to do it at all. Not when folk got real scared anyhow. He mighta tried to do it with a reassuring smile and to pretend it was a light-hearted adventure, but whenever he was covering sobbing women clutching terrified toddlers, or even drivers wide-eyed with fear unable to shift their gaze from the gun for a second, he wasn't 'happy'. He still did it. But…

"And he must have been prepared to shoot under some circumstances. If the gun was only for show, why load it? He was happy enough to risk causing a train accident too," Nell is still in full flow. "They pulled up the tracks to force the train to stop. All right, they did their best to do it with plenty of visibility and warning, but all it needed was a distracted driver, or a loose brake connection. They were happy to risk ripping limbs from innocent bodies..."

"Helen!" objects Mrs. Hartleman. "There's no need to bring bodies into the conversation."

"Miss Meredith!" chimes in Mrs. Rutherford at the same time.

What's SHE complaining about? Nell's joined her in the hang 'em and flog 'em camp!

No.

No, she hasn't, has she?

I only said that 'cos…

I reckon you already know why.

"And the money they stole. Payrolls. Bank deposits. Who suffers if a payroll is stolen? The ordinary working-men waiting for it, that's who. You know how it works, Charles. Employers in isolated areas needing a payroll run organise things so workers build debt for accommodation and provisions. A payroll snatch lets the interest mount up and the shackles tighten. And, when a bank is robbed, if it breaks and is taken over, or even if it simply has to claw its way back to solvency, who suffers most from forced loan foreclosures and tighter credit terms? The poorest customers, the farmers and small-holders. That's who the money is ALWAYS scraped back from in the end."

"Be fair, Nell," says Charles Buchanan, "I doubt many outlaws actually think that through. I daresay most don't care much from whom they steal. BUT, it's possible some actually believe they're stealing from folk rich enough not to miss it."

"It only takes five minutes to think through! How long does it take to plan a robbery? It must be weeks! Am I several thousand times more intelligent than the average outlaw to work this out so much quicker? I am conceited, undoubtedly, but not SO arrogant as to believe in a multiplier that big!"

I flick a glance at Heyes. She's not several thousand times cleverer than him, is she? He worked all that out years ago. Years. I can see it in his eyes.

So did I – work it out, that is - if I'm honest. Which I'm not, am I? Neither of us is.

All that 'no stealing from passengers' guff. Big deal. Who were we kidding?

Ourselves, I guess. We locked the truth away in our heads, behind the 'pretty good bad men' act and pretended it didn't exist.

Suddenly, I want the amnesty so bad, my throat tightens up and there is a pricking at the back of my eyes. Come on, Governor. Work something out for us. Please. A second chance. Please.

Sheesh, it's not even me who's fallen in lo…

It's not even me got a dumb soft spot for the doc. So, if listening to that made me feel this bad – how'd it make Heyes feel?

"I'm sorry! Sometimes I enjoy being on a soapbox so much, I can't see when it's time to climb off."

"We had noticed, Nell," grins Charles.

"No, not at all, ma'am," Will Rutherford is saying, in unison. Poor sap.

"You should tell me to shut up, Charles."

"Couldn't get a word in, could I? Am I allowed to use hand signals?" He mimes her being hooked off with a crook – the way they do as a joke in music halls. Heyes laughs, though it don't reach his eyes. She twinkles at him. Will looks as if he can't decide whether he oughta laugh or not.

"Would a slice of cake shut you up?" Heyes is holding out a plate.

Her hand hovers, "I shouldn't."

"Let not poor Nellie starve," he says, putting on some kinda fancy accent.

They both laugh. So do Charles and Ann. Huh? HUH? He has GOT to stop with the reading!

"Shall we talk about something more cheerful?" suggests Mrs. Hartleman.

Yup! Or something more gloomy. Anything that don't revolve around why folk oughta hand in outlaws!

"I have a topic," says Louise Skinner. "The fourth of July grows closer every day! Very soon I shall be rounding up volunteers for… Don't groan! You all know you want to!"

A loud rapping at the front door interrupts her. Charles moves to go answer it, but, before he gets out of the room, we hear boots in the passage and the sheriff strides in followed by Deputy Noah Lawson.

"Come on in, Bill," smiles Charles. "I didn't think you make it…" He breaks off.

If I thought the sheriff looked serious this morning, now he looks like a man in a real bad mood.

"I'm here on official business. Sorry to spoil everyone's evening but you two are under arrest…"

Heyes and I exchange a horrified glance. This came outta the blue! My hand twitches at my side but, of course, my gun belt is hanging alongside my hat 'cos Ann don't like guns in the house. Yeah, I know! I shoulda told her the same as I told Joe Briggs, but Ann asking real nice ISN'T Joe Briggs, is she? Besides – do I really wanna draw on Uncle Bill and Grandpa Noah in front of all these nice folk?

Heyes switches on a smile and starts on the usual, "I'm sure there's been some kinda mistake…" speech. It gets kinda lost among all the other gasps of surprise and noisy protests going on.

Above it all, I hear Bill Fraser ploughing on, "... Complaint of a violation of Statute 598 enacted March 3rd 1873…"

Huh? Mind, like I say I'm no legal expert.

Right, we go quietly now, maybe make a break for it outside…

"Evidence of misuse of the United States mail for…"

Or maybe Heyes works on a plan to bust us out later. This is a small town. The jail's nothing fancy. We can…

The voice rises in annoyance, "TAKE that pleased look off your face, right now! As for you, young lady, if you were a few years younger…"

HUH?

What I'm listening to sinks in. I stop planning when and how we get outta this and...

Sheesh!

Heyes has already realised. His mouth is practically hanging open with the shock.

The sheriff's not looking at us, he never was. The 'you two' he's come for ain't us!

"Back off, Charles! Don't make this any nastier than it's gonna be anyhow, son! Sure, you can come along, too."

To the utter disbelief of everyone in the room – with three exceptions – Ann is helped to her feet by Noah Lawson, so she can join Nell in being led away to a wagon waiting outside. Bill Fraser's arrested the pair of them!

The three exceptions are the two ladies going to jail and Mrs. Rutherford.

Ann and Nell both look real pleased with themselves, though Ann's telling Charles not to worry and how sorry she is.

Mrs. Rotherham starts off looking so like a cat who's just cornered a mouse she might as well carry a banner saying 'I handed 'em in! Take THAT Nell Meredith!' But, as she watches the Doc, her face falls. Somehow, she's played into Nell's hands.

Sheesh. I did NOT see that coming.

---oooOOOooo---

LATER THAT EVENING – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY

"Why didn't you TELL me?"

"Because you'd have tried to stop me."

"Dang straight I would!" Exasperated sigh. "You are SO stubborn!"

"I'm sorry Darling, but this is..." Ann's voice drops to a murmur.

"For Pete's sake, Ann…" Now Charles voice drops. He's plumping cushions for her. Once she's settled, he squats down to unlace her boots and rub her ankles; apparently they swell. The odd word drifts over, "…pig-headed…have to be sensible…"

"…pot calling kettle black! What about when you…?"

Me and Heyes have been helping Charles heft a comfortable chair and footstool for Ann into the girls' cell. Since this husband and wife row is no way any of our business we take ourselves off back into the Sheriff's office.

Out there, Nell's sitting opposite Bill Fraser. She's yapping, he's writing. Will Rutherford's beside her looking miserable. He's a lawyer like his Pa – though I guess we're talking not long outta college in his case – and insisted on coming to represent the girls. (From the look on his Ma's face, I reckon that means he might be sleeping in the street tonight, but he still came.) Heyes nearly hugged him, which means either he's so worried about Nell he don't care that another fella sweet on her is stepping up to the plate; OR, he's so dang sure Nell only has eyes for him, he knows he has no reason to care.

I reckon it's the second option. Nell was real touched when Will offered and she's being real nice to him, but in the same way as I'm nice, but not too nice, to Jenny Cooper. She's trying her darndest to come over 'sisterly'.

"I cannot advise you strongly enough not to say anything more, Doctor Meredith," Will's saying.

"That'd suit me," grunts the Sheriff.

"No. Thank you, Mister Rutherford, but I prefer to make a full statement. I'm not speaking too fast for you, am I, Sheriff?"

"Nope, 'cos I stopped listening ten minutes ago. This is next week's shift roster I'm writing."

"What?!"

"For one thing I can't spell mosta what you're sayin' and, for another, save it for the judge."

"Have you talked about bail?" Heyes asks Will.

He slumps.

"Yup!" The Sheriff answers for him. "Rutherford arranged bail 'bout ten seconds after he walked in."

"How much?"

"Five dollars apiece. Tell you what, I'm feeling generous, call it five dollars for the pair."

Heyes blinks. Then – why are they still here? He starts to dig into his pocket.

"Forget it," says the Sheriff. "They're refusing to agree to bail terms."

"Huh?"

"The ladies won't give a declaration – which could be a simple nod of the head - they'll show up for their trial if released," glooms Will Rutherford. "Legally, the Sheriff's hands are tied. He can't bail them."

"Yup," confirms the Sheriff. "That's pretty much why Mrs. Hartleman washed her hands of it and went home leaving the doc to stew. I can't throw 'em out unless I drop all charges…"

"That's right!" triumphs Nell.

"Drop the charges, then," urges Heyes. "For Pete's sake, Ann's your niece!"

"THAT'S just one more reason I gotta be seen to be going by the book. Maybe I'll get lucky. Something tells me I'm gonna forget to lock the cells this evening. Maybe they'll break jail if the night gets chilly, huh?" The Sheriff looks up, sighs, "Look, I don't like this no more'n you do, but I've received a complaint, backed by evidence, from..." He pauses, glances at Will Rutherford and picks his words carefully, "A respected pillar of the community, that a crime's been committed. And, my current pair of jailbirds make it kinda hard to drop the charges, 'cos they keep admitting they wrote THIS," his finger jabs at a slim pamphlet on his desk, "they drew the illustrations, they got it printed AND, the really d*mning part, they circulated it far and wide using the United States Mail…"

"I did strongly recommend Doctor Meredith and Mrs. Buchanan not to…" begins Will.

"Not to keep yapping like it's going outta fashion," finishes Heyes. "Yeah, well. I reckon you did your best. Getting the doc to keep quiet was never gonna be easy, huh?"

"Ann and I have no reason to keep quiet! We have done nothing, NOTHING, to be ashamed of! The whole basis of the complaint rests on this," her turn to jab at the pamphlet, "being obscene, lewd, and/or lascivious! Our contention is that it is none of those things! In any decent society this would be seen for what it is; a perfectly legitimate educational…"

"Didn't you hear the Sheriff tell you to save it for the judge?" interrupts Heyes.

I reckon he wants to drag her somewhere private for the kind of flaming row Charles is trying to have with Ann next door (they're making an effort not to raise their voices but the odd sound of a man driven crazy by feminine cussedness drifts through). Heyes drops his hands to his hips and gives Nell the kinda look that used to make the gang think twice 'bout arguing.

She stares back. "A perfectly legitimate, educational document, containing…"

"Stop yapping! Accept bail terms! Go home!" snaps Heyes.

"No! This is important! And, Mister Smith, I have your advice to thank for the idea."

"What?!" That was me. Sheesh, Heyes! I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?

Will Rutherford and Bill Fraser both join me in giving him disapproving glares. Mine's the most though. The most disapproving that is. In fact, I'd call mine – plumb furious.

Heyes looks stunned, then remembers whatever dumb thing he's been saying. "Oh, for Pete's sake!" he groans, throwing back his head and staring at the ceiling, as if searching for someone to give him strength.

"Mister Smith advised that if I wanted to draw the attention of the wider press to an issue, I needed news. Not facts. Genuine, happening now, news."

"I said THAT, sure! I didn't say, go get yourself arrested!"

"Two respectable ladies getting arrested for breaching the Comstock Act will generate publicity about the iniquity of these laws…"

"Maybe it will! But where are you an' Ann gonna find two respectable ladies? 'Cos, two attention-seeking numbskulls in skirts getting slung in jail might not…"

"There's no need to raise your voice, Mister Smith!"

"Yes, there d*mn well is! How d'you think it makes me…?" Heyes stops, thinks. When he carries on, you can tell he's choosing his words, "How d'you think it's gonna make the people who care about you feel? How d'you think Charles is gonna feel seeing – seeing the woman he loves locked up and then being stared at, pointed at, gossiped over during a trial? Huh? What kinda privacy do you think him and Ann'll get over the next few weeks? Huh?"

Nell looks down, blushes. "I think so well of Charles, that I trust him, once his initial annoyance is over, to support the woman he loves in doing what she believes to be right. I trust him to be patient. I trust him to be understanding."

Hey! Is it me – or are they saying one thing and meaning another?

Their eyes meet.

"Do you think I'm right to trust him, Mister Smith?"

There's a pause. When he speaks, Heyes' voice is gruff, "Thought we'd already settled it that you're always right, ma'am."

"Did I hear my name being taken in vain?" We turn, Charles has come into the office.

"The doc was singing your praises as a husband," the Sheriff grunts. "Saying how understanding you'd be 'bout this."

"Understanding? Is that code for: he's a pushover who'll put up with anything when Ann does the big, brown, puppy-dog eyes look?"

"You do, don't you?" pleads Nell, all anxious. "I mean, you DO understand why we did this? You're not really angry with Ann? Nor me? You and me – we're still friends?"

"Of course I understand. I'm still angry with her and FURIOUS with you, but I do understand. And, if it's possible to be friends with someone you want to shake till her teeth rattle, yes, we're still friends, Nell." He turns to us. "She won't budge. Joshua, Thaddeus, will you help me bring over a decent mattress? And a washstand? And, some screens? And there's a…" He drops his voice, "…a commode over at Doctor Cooper's place."

This is just DUMB!

"No!" I explode. "I mean, sure, if she hadta stay we'd help you heft your whole house across town! But she don't! Your wife shouldn't be doin' this in her condition. Can't you - y'know – exert your authority? Make her accept bail."

A nod from the Sheriff. "You oughta put your foot down, Charles."

Charles looks at us, then gives a reluctant grin, "I probably could exert marital authority, Thaddeus. I even believe Ann'd do as she's told if I genuinely did put my foot down. BUT, you remember all that guff she and Nell spout about women's rights? And, you know how I claim to agree with them? I don't do that for a quiet life. I actually DO agree. At this moment, I'm exceedingly annoyed with my exceedingly annoying wife. But, that doesn't mean she's not still perfectly entitled to make her own decisions. And, it doesn't mean I'm not incredibly proud of her for making herself this uncomfortable on a matter of principle."

I guess that told me, huh?

"We KNEW we could trust you, Charles!" glows Nell. "You WILL send those telegrams Ann's given you?"

"Yes. And, I'll do what I can to whip up publicity. There'll be a fair amount of interest."

"A FAIR amount!" Nell huffs. "We're planning something better than that! You'll help, won't you, Mister Smith? It could work?"

I glower at Heyes, willing him to say no.

"Well," he sounds doubtful, "It'll help that you're both young and easy enough on the eye."

"WHAT?! That is utterly irrelevant!"

"Well, let's take a straw poll. Of the men here, who'd be more likely to buy a journal carrying a picture of a pretty young girl than a plain old lady?"

Five arms go up.

"I think I mighta carried my point unanimously there, ma'am."

Nell's hands go to her hips and she opens her mouth to argue.

Heyes jumps in before she can speak. "Forget the photographs, let's talk copy. You were arrested. You were jailed. That's it. It's the same story whether you spend two hours or two days here. Why wait? Accept bail terms. Sooner or later, the Sheriff's gonna need the cells for drying out drunks, huh? Do you really like the thought of sharing?"

"Joshua's right," says Charles. "You've made your point, you may as well come out now."

"No."

"Do you mean to sit here until a trial?" asks the Sheriff. "By the time we get a judge and prosecutor to town, that could mean I'm stuck with you for … Sheesh!" He shakes his head "Besides, what about your patients?"

Nell looks kinda torn when she hears that.

"It won't be for long… Naturally, if any medical emergency arose where Doctor Cooper needed assistance…"

Heyes brows snap together.

"Won't be for long? Helen, what are you waiting for?"

She puts on an innocent face which wouldn't fool me, let alone Heyes, for two seconds. "Waiting for, Mister Smith?"

Suddenly, from the cell, we hear a shrill call which panics every man in the room and makes Charles go white as a sheet.

"Nell! NELL! Come quick! I think it's coming!"

---oooOOOooo---


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**MONDAY – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

"Isn't he gorgeous? Isn't he…? I'm still furious with you, Nell! Awwww! Look! Look! He's smiling! I'm your Dada! Yes, I am! Yes, I am! Hello!"

Charles is not still furious with Nell. Charles is so far sunk into the sap zone that he won't be furious with no one for months. Least of all Nell. Mind you, he has some excuse. She did deliver his son.

I go over, tickle a tiny cheek. Hey! Look at that! He's gripping my finger! Tiny, tiny fingers grasping mine! Those nails are SO small and SO perfect! Aww!

"Heye…" I call. Sheesh! That was close! "Hey, Joshua! Come take a look at this! Look at his grip!"

"Amazing," grunts Heyes. "A baby that grasps fingers put into his hand. Shall we add that to the stuff Charles telegraphed to the city papers?"

Nell snirts.

Hey! Pffftttt to that pair! I beam at Ann. "He's beautiful," I say. Look! Now he's blowing a bubble! Aww!

"So, this was part of your plan, huh?" glowers Heyes at the doc. "I hope you're proud of yourself! If you wanna be a martyr, go ahead! But, did you hafta drag Mrs. Buchanan and Charles and even an innocent newborn into it?"

Nell blinks at the tone. So do I. Sheesh, Heyes. I know the girls have done one of the dumbest things I ever heard of, but there's no need to sound so… And, even if there were, I don't reckon now's the time.

"All that guff you told us about it being much safer not to move Ann, once labour had started; how this place could be made perfectly clean and safe if we fetched your stuff… That was just you chumping us to get your own way, huh?"

What's got into Heyes? Oh! I bet I know. He's all riled up 'cos he didn't catch on quicker to what the gals were gonna do, huh?

"No," says Ann, quietly. She lifts her eyes from the crumpled, roseleaf face nestled in the nook of her arm gives Heyes a very straight look. "It wasn't. Yes, we tried to time things correctly. Yes, Nell was stalling until labour started, but what she said about staying put being better than bumping me home on a wagon was perfectly true. What she said about boiling water, carbolic soap and plenty of clean linen being all that was needed to make this a perfectly safe delivery area was also true." She holds Heyes gaze. "If you don't know Nell doesn't lie, least of all about medical matters, and that she would never put a patient at risk for her own ends, you don't know her at all, Joshua."

He glances at me. I think he sees I'm with Ann on this. Heyes is outta order.

He reaches out, touches Nell's hand. "I didn't mean that, huh?" Their eyes meet.

"I know," she says.

"I'm just mad at you."

"I know."

"Suppose the pair of you get sent to real prison? Y'know, one where the doors have locks and you're not allowed to send home for your bag."

"We won't. Certainly Ann won't. Not for a first offence. Our opponents won't want the publicity of parting a mother and child. If I go to prison, well – it's a risk I'm prepared to take. But, I won't, either."

"Sez you!"

"Says Will Rutherford, too."

"Oh, well! If Will Rutherford says so! I take it the Oracle at Delphi was tied up, huh?" Heyes gets a surprised look and I reckon realises that came out mean bearing in mind that… Well, bearing in mind Will's been kinda a good loser. He flashes Nell a 'sorry' glance.

"Don't worry. We won't be jailed, we'll be fined. Our friends in the Suffrage Association will already be collecting funds by now." Her turn to touch him, she lays a hand on his shoulder and repeats, "Don't worry."

I don't think he means to do it but his hand goes up to cover hers. Just for a second their fingers lace. But all he says is, "It's you should be worrying, not me."

The hands part. Heyes, still riled, starts up again, "You shouldn'ta done it and you shouldn'ta dragged Ann into…"

"I wasn't dragged!" protests Ann. "Don't you see, I had to be involved. I'm the angle!"

"Huh?" That was me.

"Stories need an angle," explains Heyes. "A hook to draw folk in."

"Uh huh," I nod. Like con tricks? I get that.

"A female doctor being arrested for breaching the Comstock Act is news," chips in Nell. "It offers a little temptation for the prurient and a professional woman still has a novelty value, BUT – it lacks a certain something. It lacks that extra hook. You heard Charles. A fair amount of interest. AND, me doing it alone risked being dismissed with the usual tricks used to belittle any argument made by women campaigners."

"Tricks?" What tricks?

"Oh, you know, Thaddeus," says Heyes. "They'd twist it to make it read like the doc's a dried up spinster, left on the shelf, past the first flush of youth, losing any looks she ever had, eaten up with frustrated bile…"

Nell interrupts him, with a glare. "They'd portray any unmarried woman as bitter about not having a man of her own and trying to stop other women fulfilling their maternal role. OR, they'd hint that I'm only interested in Malthusian methods to allow me to…" She blushes.

"I get that one," I say.

"But, what this pair worked out is that 'baby born in jail to birth control campaigner,' gives a whole extra gloss," explains Heyes. "AND, that Ann's perfect for the press if you wanna avoid the usual tricks. A new mother. Happily married. Devoted husband at her side. Glowing with domestic bliss. It gives a perfect picture to back up the 'every child, a wanted child' message; and it delivers a huge dollop of human interest." He looks over at Nell, part angry, part reluctant admiration. "You cast Ann as the main event and settled for a supporting role, yourself; loyal friend delivers baby in cell – and it'll work! In a day or two this place'll be crawling with newspapermen wanting to know all about why the pair of you did it and itching for an interview. You're gonna get what you want, a show trial on Comstock. You did it."

Oh! I see what's eating at Heyes! For a week or so, maybe more, this quiet little town is gonna get real noisy. Lotsa nosey journalists trying to dig up something to make their take on the story stand out. We're only bit players, but we still won't like that! Lotsa photographers taking pictures. We won't like that, neither. And, won't the fuss over what he's calling a show trial mean Bill Fraser'll call in a few extra lawmen to make sure everything stays peaceful? I reckon so. And, I reckon we'll like that least of all.

We're gonna hafta leave town. Heyes sees that, don't he? And, we won't know how long the fuss'll last, so we won't be able to promise when we'll be back.

He knew though! He knew we'd hafta leave sometime.

'Course, Nell'll think he's running out on her just when she's about to need support, but…

He shoulda listened to me.

He shoulda never…

Shoulda. Coulda. Woulda.

I shrug. I guess we've all been there. I sure have. Some years I practically lived there.

He will see it, though, won't he? He'll see we hafta go.

"Joshua, I reckon we oughta leave," I say. "Let Ann and Charles have some time alone with this little fella." I tickle a cheek again. Hey! He looked at me. I give him a tiny wave and big smile, see Heyes looking at me as if I've gone mad, drop my hand and wipe the mushy grin off my face.

"I'm bailing Ann out in a few hours," smiles Charles. "Nell says she'll be fine, so long as we take the drive real slow."

"Doctor Cooper's already been in to say he's got a whole list of extra calls and he could do with me manning the surgery," says Nell. "Then I'll go back to Ann's place. Theoretically, to make sure she and little Charles are fine. Actually, since it's obvious they're both fighting fit, to give Aunt Miriam a chance to simmer down. So, it'll be Wednesday morning before I get back to my usual routine." She pauses. Did she just flick a look at Heyes? I dunno. I was looking at Charles Junior. He's yawing and it's the cutest thing you've ever seen. "Or maybe I'll get back to normal – that is, back to normal rounds by midday tomorrow. At least, that is, until the trial."

"We'll say good bye for now, then," grunts Heyes, still looking grim.

---oooOOOooo---

Out in the street, I look at him.

"We oughta leave, Heyes."

Nothing.

""It'd be safer…"

"No reason to think anyone we know'll show up, Kid."

Oh, for Pete's sake.

"So, you were doin' your bad-tempered jackass act back there 'cos you're all riled up at there being no problem at all 'bout stayin' in town, huh? C'mon, Heyes! I told you yesterday, it's time to move on. Now, I'm tellin' you again. Even if this hadn't happened, we gotta move on."

Nothing. I try a different – what was it – oh, yeah, angle.

"Look on the bright side, we got at least a day in hand. This time we can make up a telegram coming in, give some reason. Say good bye properly."

Heyes stops, scowls at the ground, kicks up a little dirt. He's weighing the odds. If he gives me the 'we're not joined at the hip, Kid' talk again, am I gonna call his bluff, quit town and leave him to it? Deep down, I know I'm not. 'Cos, deep down, I know he ain't bluffing.

I see the sheriff striding back towards his office. He spots us, comes over.

"I've been wiring the county hall 'bout a trial," he says. "I've also wired a judge who's an old friend of mine. I dunno if he can sit, but even if he can't, he can come see fair play." He's talking to Heyes more'n me, being almost fatherly. "I gotta go by the book, that don't mean I don't care what happens. I thought I'd tell you, in case you were worrying. I'll go put Charles' mind at rest now."

Heyes says, "Thanks, Sheriff." Then, looks kinda sheepish. I guess it's 'cos Bill Fraser acts like there's not much doubt Heyes and Nell are a couple, in near enough the same way Charles and Ann are.

The trouble with Heyes is, he don't realise his poker face keeps slipping when the doc's around. This sheriff might believe in the benefit of the doubt for newcomers who don't cause no trouble, but he's not dumb and he's not blind, neither.

"Are you tellin' us, you're aiming to fix the trial to get the girls off?" I ask. 'Cos if he is – it might be the nearest to crooked Fraser's ever been – but, it sure suits me.

"No!" He shifts his feet. "Not to get 'em off. I'm simply trying to get a fair-minded, decent man sitting on the bench. Someone who'll understand that, even if he don't agree with printing that stuff, they're doin' it for... Well, y'know."

Yeah, we know. Just seems the best of motives can stir up trouble same as the worst, huh?

"I'm hoping Hanley'll be here by…"

D*MN it! I flick a glance at Heyes; without actually moving, his whole body kinda sags with the blow. For once, there's no exchange of the 'look' between us; Heyes is on his own with this.

"…Like I say, he's an old friend, if things work out maybe he'll stay on for a little fishing. It's been over a year."

It just keeps getting better, huh? Someone involved with the law who don't just know Heyes and Curry by sight, but knows our aliases too. If we leave, he'll probably still hear about us and put two and two together. Even if he don't, it sounds like he visits every so often anyhow. Great!

'Course, there's a glimmer of a silver lining. Judge Hanley is a decent fella and he knows we're working hard at staying straight. If he DOES figure out who the Smith and Jones who spent a coupla months in Arcadia (without giving the Sheriff a sniff of trouble) were, I don't see him filling in Bill Fraser and rounding up a posse. On the downside; no way do I see him letting Heyes carry on – whatever, I dunno – with a respectable girl who don't know the truth.

We can't risk staying. No way.

Even if Heyes wanted to gamble on Hanley's good nature one more time, sheer surprise could make the man give us away on sight.

"Oh," the Sherriff's remembered something, "…There was a telegram for you at the depot, Smith. I said I'd pass it on." He digs in his pocket, holds it out.

Heyes freezes for a moment. A wire for him? Did Fraser read it? Did it say anything – suspicious? Can't have done, can it? Not the way the sheriff's behaving.

"Thanks," I smile, taking it from Fraser's gloved fingers.

He nods a farewell.

"It'll be from Lom," says Heyes. "I wired him while you were away, asking for news." I see his hands are clenched so tight, his knuckles must shine white under the battered leather. "If this was a dime novel, Kid, this'd be when the amnesty came through, huh? Perfect timing."

His voice tries to sound light-hearted, but…

"Don't milk it, Kid. Read."

I unfold the slip of paper. Please. Please. Please. Sheesh! My hand's steady enough, years of practice, huh? But I feel hairs rising on the back of my neck. I know it won't say nothing. I KNOW that! But, please! Please!

I read. It IS from Lom. It IS about 'our mutual friend'.

Silence. Me and Heyes, we're the stillest things in that quiet, quiet street.

I can hear Heyes breathing. I can even hear him hoping.

His eyes plead with me.I don't wanna…

C'mon, Kid, c'mon. Come ON! TELL him!

I can't. Not this time. Instead, I screw the useless telegram into a ball, throw it down, grind it into the dirt with my heel.

---oooOOOooo---

**LATER – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

"Look on the bright side, Kid," sighs Heyes, as he raises his hand to knock on the Buchanan's door. "At least I don't hafta make up a wire coming in. We got us a witness to that bit."

We're here to say goodbye. We ride out tomorrow.

What choice do we have?

---oooOOOooo---

**END OF PART TWO**

---oooOOOooo---


	16. Chapter 16

**PART THREE**

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**NARRATTED BY NELL**

Though I have seen him so many times now, my tummy still flips whenever he walks through the door. (Not literally, obviously! I may be head over heels in love, but I have not forgotten that stomachs actually stay put. My heart races too, but that IS real! Documented reaction to excitement.) When I think of what we were doing – was it really only yesterday - part of me wants to curl up with shame, part of me wants to shout my joy from the rooftops.

I like the second part of me best!

They ask after Ann; just fine but resting upstairs.

They ask after Charles Junior; just fine but – not surprisingly – also resting upstairs.

For a change, it is Thaddeus doing most of the talking. Joshua is very quiet, looking at me. His hat twists in his hands.

A pause.

"Charles," says Thaddeus, taking a deep breath, "Why don't I take you to the saloon, buy you a beer to celebrate you becoming a father?"

"Er, we have beer here. Let me…"

"No. Let me take you to the saloon. A quick beer. Just you an' me, huh?."

Charles eyes go from me to Joshua and back again. Light dawns. "Oh! Right! A beer. That sounds real fine, Thaddeus." He pauses at the door, "If Ann wakes up and asks where I am, Nell, you'll…"

"I'll tell her you ran back to 'Frisco after only one afternoon of squawking," I smile.

"And if little Charles wakes up, you'll…"

"I'll see if I can trade him for something quiet, dry and useful. Charles, I think I can cope with any waking up emergencies for the duration of one beer."

He gives a rueful grin, claps his hat on his head and walks out.

Thaddeus throws Joshua a meaningful look, before following Charles onto the street.

So, HE wants to speak to me alone, about something on which he has already briefed his best friend in all the world.

Unless, that is, his best friend in all the world is now ME.

Because, the something can only be one thing – can it not?

He is going to ask THE question.

He is doing it now, so I know for sure he means to support me through the coming trial. I knew anyway. I trust him so much…

"So," I smile, throwing my arms around my lover's neck and lifting up my face to be kissed, "…What shall we talk about?"

He pulls me close, strains me to him so tight I gasp, but only for a second. I hear him draw in his breath. I wait to hear those four little words from this wonderful, beautiful man whom I utterly adore.

"Helen," my arms are unwrapped from his neck; I am not kissed. "I hafta leave."

They are NOT the correct four little words.

"Leave? You only just arrived."

"I hafta leave Arcadia. Jones and me – we got a telegram. An old friend wants us to go do a job for him."

Oh! That came out of the blue. My heart sinks. Not only because of the fact I will miss him so much while he is away, but because…

This feels wrong. It does not ring true.

No, no! Two seconds ago I was thinking how much I trust him. I DO trust him.

"Who is this friend?" I have never heard him talk about any friend except Thaddeus Jones. "What kind of job?" It makes no difference, does it? Except… If this is just an excuse – why?

"His name's Trevors." He does not answer the question about the job. Instead, "I really do hafta do this, Helen. Trust me. I wouldn't go otherwi…"

"When do you plan to leave?"

"Tomorrow. Thaddeus and I will ride out first thing. Helen, I want you to know how very, very special my time here has…"

Tomorrow! As in, in less than twelve hours tomorrow. As in, this is the last time I see him until… Until when?

"How long will you be gone?" I interrupt.

I do not want to hear how special the time we have together is. I know that! I want to know when it will start again. NO! I want to know when we will have nearly all our time together!

"I dunno, Helen. It could be… I dunno." He stops. "It's hard to say. Y'know, it's not as if me and Thaddeus have what you'd call a settled lifestyle. Maybe one day…" He stops.

What? The pause lengthens. Well… Go on! You must have more to say than that.

He takes my hand, presses it. "Goodbye, Helen." He moves in, he is going to kiss me.

No! I am NOT having a goodbye kiss.

"No!" I hold him off. "Have you nothing more to say? What about us?"

"Us – was real special, Helen, I want you to know…"

"Stop it! Stop with the extra kind, oh-so-understanding voice! What are you talking about? You and Thaddeus don't have a settled lifestyle? Where did THAT come from?" My hands go to my hips, as I stare at him. "Firstly, what on earth has Thaddeus to do with US?! I like Thaddeus very much but, when you talk about yourself as half of a couple, Joshua, the only other name I expect to hear mentioned is mine! Secondly, unless I've been dreaming, you have a perfectly settled lifestyle here if you want it! Here would be fine until we move to Denver…"

"Move to Denver?!"

"We talked about it! I was saying how I'd need a reasonably urban environment to support a suitable practice, and YOU said you'd always thought Denver a real nice town!"

He DID say that! Admittedly, I have made it sound as if the two comments were more linked than maybe they were. I have been reading up on Denver! Planning where…

"Helen…"

"You want us to live somewhere else? I'm open to suggestions."

"Helen…"

Finally, I see this situation and my stupid, stupid self for what they truly are. I admit what I have been trying not to know ever since he took my hands from around his neck.

You fool, Nell! You utter fool! You think you are SO clever and you have made the oldest, dumbest mistake a girl can make.

"You don't want US to live anywhere, ever," all the feeling, all the young hope, has bled from my voice. It sounds bleak as winter in the quiet room.

Nothing.

"You're not waiting for the right moment to propose. There IS no right moment. Or rather, from your point of view, the right moment is never."

His mouth opens, closes again. Then, a flash of the old Joshua. "I thought," he says, "marriage was deeply flawed within our current society. Far from being based on love, it is often a mostly commercial transaction…"

He is quoting things I said all those weeks ago when he and Ann and I had evening after evening at the Coopers. He is trying to lighten the mood.

"Stop it!" I do not WANT to lighten the mood. If what I think is happening IS happening, this is one very dark day and deserves a mood to match.

"I'm only repeating something a real clever woman told me."

"Whatever the flaws, marriage is the ONLY way we can be together. You know that. I know that. I certainly don't want to sink into provider and helpmeet roles; I don't want to tie either of us down to 365 days of domesticity a year. BUT, I love you, Joshua Smith. I want my life linked with yours. Until two minutes ago I believed you loved me..."

"I do, Helen."

And, do you know what? A foolish part of me still believes that. He looks so…

But…

What WOULD a gifted seducer swearing true love look like? He would look like an honest man, deep in love, speaking from the heart.

Like this.

Words are only air. It is actions which reveal the truth.

If he leaves, without…

"You don't. If you did, you'd want to marry me. And, you don't." Pause. "Do you?" Silence. "You have no intention of coming back at all, have you?"

Silence. Then, "It's not that I don't want to…"

A thought strikes me. It would still hurt. It would mean he's a liar, but – it would explain.

"Have you a wife, already? Is that it?"

"No! Helen, please listen…"

"No. I loved you. I trusted you. I was wrong. Go away."

"I love…"

"I don't care to hear it. Go away."

"Helen. Don't…"

"Look!" I was trying to retain some dignity, but now the words explode from my mouth. "Why are you STILL trying to sweet talk me? You won! You got what you wanted. You got me to fall on my back and spread my legs! Go away and cut another notch on your belt, or your gun handle – or wherever it is you keep score – then ride on to the next town! Go away!"

D*mn it! I am starting to cry. My voice is shaking so much that last 'go away' was little more that a hiccup.

"It wasn't like that! Don't think that!"

"It sure looks like that from where I'm standing. One quick **** and next day, what do you know, you're riding out!"

He flinches at the ugly, ugly word. I do not care! It is not 'making love' if only one of us was stupid enough to mean it!

Frantically, I search first pockets, then my sleeves, for a handkerchief. D*mn and blast and…

"Please don't cry, Helen…" He holds out a clean linen square to me.

"I am NOT crying!"

Not quite! Not yet! I am NOT crying in front of him! I am not taking ANYTHING from him neither. Not even a handkerchief. I pluck a diaper from a pile, blow my nose on that, mop up as best I can.

"Go away!"

"Please…"

I turn on my heel, go open the front door. "I asked you to leave, Mister Smith." I do not look at him. Not then. Not when he picks up his hat and walks past me. I close the door behind him, lean against it. I lean there for a long time. I have no idea how long. I am waiting for it – this – to sink in. Or, maybe I am waiting to wake up from this bad dream.

It does not sink in. I do not wake up.

I walk upstairs, taking the steps very steadily, because my knees feel like jelly. I grip the banister tightly, because my hands shake like leaves.

"Ann," I say very softly as I push open her door. "Are you still asleep?"

"No," she sits up, wincing just a touch. "I'm starving! Is it anywhere near supper ti… Nell! What is it?"

"Nothing," my voice wavers on the lie.

If I were as strong as I like to pretend, I would say, 'his loss!' and shrug this off.

But, I am not, am I?

I am not as strong, nor as clever, nor as rational, nor as – ANYTHING – as I like to pretend.

I should not burden Ann with any of this. But…

A gurgling sob, smothered behind my hand because I do not want to wake the baby, bubbles out of my mouth and nostrils. I run over and crumple to the floor beside the bed, burying my head in the quilt.

Out of me comes a mostly meaningless burble of self-reproach, pleadings for secrecy, whimpers, what seems like half a pint of tears, half a pint of drool and a whole pint of snot, cussing of men, cussing of myself and the odd animal-like howl of pain delivered, quietly as I can, into a pillow.

Ann is utterly wonderful. I am stroked and soothed and shushed; what bit of me she can rock, is rocked. A little later, my nose is blown, my face is washed, my hair is tidied. Ann has only been a mother for half a day, but she is a natural.

And, just now, I need mothering nearly as much as her little son does.

---oooOOOooo---

By the time we hear Charles coming through the front door, I am sipping hot sweet tea and, through sore and puffy eyelids, watching Ann feed the baby.

Life is still bleak, but, I would have to be an ungrateful wretch not to at least make an effort to count a few blessings. If only the cruel, twisting ache would ease up and the wrenching hollow emptiness stop. I know perfectly well there is no such thing as a broken heart, but now, I certainly understand where the term came from. This really hurts.

Charles takes one look at me and his mouth falls open.

Oh, d*mn it! I know human beings are mostly water, but this is ridiculous! I cannot start to cry again already! D*MN it!

Believe me – however much you despise me for being so utterly wringing wet, it is not half so much as I despise myself.

---oooOOOooo---

**AT THE SALOON - SHORTLY AFTERWARDS – NARRATED BY KID CURRY**

Charles was pretty disappointed when I told him we were leaving town. I reckon he'd got Heyes pegged to be right hand man in ensuring the girls got the kinda publicity they're after.

He hoped it wouldn't be too long before we were back in Arcadia.

I said, we were both real happy here.

He guessed Joshua was settling things with Nell.

I said, I guessed so too.

It's what Heyes calls equivocating. It's not lying, but it kinda feels dang close when I'm doing it to a fella who's been so straight with both of us.

Mind you, it's not real hard to get Charles OFF the subject of why we're going and when we'll be back and ON the subject of how his son's the most wonderful object in the entire world and is clearly gonna be president one day.

Heyes looks – strange - when he arrives. I reckon he tried to pace some of whatever he's feeling off, but – it's not worked too well. On the surface he's wearing a smile and acting normal. But the eyes are…

Charles, who's still pretty much floating, assumes it's nothing more than a fella facing a few weeks of missing his gal. He kinda pats Heyes on the shoulder, tells him his job's open when he gets back, tells him absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I sure hope that last bit's only guff! Else I'm in for a hell of a time, let alone what Heyes'll go through.

Then he sets off home to coo over his baby, breaking into a trot the minute the batwing doors swing behind him.

"Heyes," I say real low, "you did the right…"

Sheesh. Last time I saw that look, Danny Bilson was on the receiving end. I shut up. He calls for whiskey, tells the barkeep to leave the bottle.

I don't reckon the first whiskey even touches the sides.

"Uh huh," he says, with a bitter edge, "men have died and worms have eaten 'em, but not for love, huh? I reckon it's the same for women. We'll both get over it."

Another whiskey is poured and drunk.

"Our last night, Kid," the dangerous look's gone, the not-reaching-the-eyes smile is back. "Let's try and enjoy what's left of it."

He downs another, then gathers up the bottle and glass and walks over to the forbidden poker table.

"Room for a couple more, fellas?"

---oooOOOooo---

As folk drift in, the saloon starts to buzz – as much as any saloon ever buzzes on a Monday - with the arrest and sniggers about what kinda drawings this pamphlet had. (The sniggers are wrong. I saw a copy and… Euw! How nice girls like Nell and Ann coulda produced… Euw! But it wasn't anything like some of the fellas seem to imagine. Seeing tubes and – and stuff – and how you'd look if'n you and a gal were sliced right down the middle, it's enough to turn a fella OFF – y'know – not put him in the mood!) I worry Heyes'll get riled up by some of the talk, but I don't reckon he even hears most of it. He's drinking, playing, talking his usual card talk, but I'm not sure he's really with us – if you know what I mean. Part of me thinks I oughta say something, but… I dunno. No one's coming out with anything you could really object to about the girls – not anything that isn't true anyhow. Most folk around here think what I think; Ann and the doc are real nice ladies, whose heads happen to be full of new-fangled notions! Picking a fight 'cos some of the older men think women oughta stay home and keep house, or 'cos some of the younger bucks are enjoying picturing the kinda stuff they'd LIKE to see drawn – that'd just be dumb. I scowl at one particularly noisy pair who immediately stop laughing and move out of my range. I give a long cold look to another fella who uses a word I don't care to hear. He mutters 'no offence' and leaves. That'll do. If anything IS still being said, folk know to keep it out of my earshot.

A few heads turn, I glance over to see who's walked in. It's Charles. What the Sam Hill is he doing back? He's making for us, stopping to get his hand shook and back slapped by fellas who weren't around to congratulate him earlier.

"Joshua," he says, as he reaches the table, "when you finish that hand – could I have a word?" His voice is civil enough, but the smile he's wearing is kinda like Heyes' when HE walked in – not real.

"Sure," says Heyes, he pushes out a chair with his boot.

"I meant outside, in private."

Their eyes meet for a moment.

"Sure," repeats Heyes. He picks up his winnings. "Deal me out fellas."

"Me too," I say. Whatever Charles has come to say – I wanna hear it.

Outside on the boardwalk, Heyes stops. "Uh huh?"

Charles switches off the smile. "Not here. Let's go round behind the livery."

"Why?"

"Because, I don't want anyone hearing what I have to say. Not that I care who knows what I think of YOU; but a gentleman doesn't risk a lady's name being overheard and…" he searches, "sullied."

"Charles," Heyes says, "when you asked me to step outside – were you actually asking me to – y'know – step outside?"

"Yes. I'm not too sure of the etiquette of the thing, but I suppose I am."

"You're calling me out?"

"Yes."

This kinda COULD be almost funny 'cos Charles is… Well, he's not a weakling or nothing, but he's a coupla inches shorter than Heyes and must be a good twenty pounds lighter. Even if he weren't, he's… The man's one of those pen-is-mightier-than-the-sword types. Last I heard, he didn't think violence solved nothing. (Mind you, the longer I live, the more I reckon there's a lotta truth in there.) Like I say, the idea of him calling Heyes out could be funny – but, it's not, is it? We like him. We've both got kinda used to…

Look. It sounds sappy but it's nice having decent folks' good opinion.

I glance at Heyes, but there's no 'look'. He don't glance back.

Charles is already striding toward the livery. We follow. When we're on the patch of ground behind the stables, Charles turns. There's a pause.

Heyes breaks it. "I'm not claiming to be no etiquette expert neither, but, if you're the one doing the calling out – I reckon you hafta start."

"All I want to ask is – what's actually been happening between you and Doctor Meredith?"

"Is it any of your d*mn business?"

"Yes. She's MY friend and she's sitting in MY house breaking her heart and looking like her world just fell apart. So, I'm making it MY business!"

Silence. I don't like thinking of Nell like that, so I'm guessing Heyes likes it even less.

"What's she say has been happening?" Heyes asks, all gruff.

"Nothing! Neither is Ann! It's what they WON'T say that makes me think I'm standing here talking to a – a skunk!" Pause. "Right, let's make the questions specific. Have you been meeting her in secret?"

Silence.

"Have you kissed her?"

Silence.

"Have you taken," he actually blushes, "…Other liberties?"

Y'know what? I'd like an answer to those questions too. Especially the last. 'Cos if the answer to that one's yes – I kinda wish Charles was six foot four and two hundred and twenty pounds on the hoof, so he could flatten Heyes the way he deserves.

"Do you want to deny ANY of that?"

Silence. Heyes might wanna deny it, but he don't. I don't think he wants to tell lies about Nell.

"Because, any man who puts a woman's reputation in jeopardy is slime. Any man who leads a woman to believe he loves her, who courts her – and then doesn't follow through with an honourable proposal is scum. Scum needs dealing with."

"And you're gonna deal me, huh?"

Written down it sounds like Heyes is being flip. He kinda is. He's got his hands on his hips; he's pushed back his hat; he's wrapped around near on a half bottle of whiskey. But… He's not flip. Not really. Underneath, he's miserable.

"I'm going to try. I wouldn't count myself any kind of man if I didn't."

"Charles," this is me, "…In case you haven't noticed, Joshua's wearing a gun and you're not. It kinda swings the odds in a fight."

That sounds flip written down, too. I can only say – I don't think I said it flip.

Heyes draws, stares down Charles with his meanest look. Like I said, he's been drinking.

Charles looks at the weapon pointing at him. Of all the fellas I know, I reckon, right now, he's got the most to live for. A long pause. He draws a deep breath. "Like I said, I wouldn't count myself any kind of man if I didn't do this." He strips off his jacket, starts to roll up his sleeves ready for a fight. He really hasn't done this before, has he?

Heyes does what I knew – nearly knew – he'd do, even though he's so near drunk as makes no difference. He shakes his head in disbelief, then throws his gun aside. Good. 'Cos – if I'd hadta shoot it outta his hand…

"Something else you might not have noticed," Heyes says, "there's two of us."

Charles looks at me. "I've no quarrel with you Thaddeus, apart from your abysmal taste in friends. BUT, if it's two against one – so be it."

"It ain't," I say, shortly.

I reckon Heyes only said it to stop anything starting, but I don't wanna… I'm not taking sides. Well, I am. That's the trouble. I don't feel like taking the side of the guy whose back I've watched for ten years straight and who I've known since the day his folks brought him over to see the new baby at the Curry place.

"In that case, Thaddeus, would you hold my glasses?"

"Sure," I say. "But, Charles…"

"If you're about to say Joshua could still pound me to a pulp with one hand behind his back," Charles gives a rueful shrug, "…Him being bigger than me doesn't stop him being a skunk. Slime. Scum. Vermin."

Pause. I think Charles is hoping Heyes'll throw the first punch. He'll have to work on the insults for that.

His fists go up, classic boxing style. I can't help a half-grin. He's never had a street fight in his…

Sheesh! Right in the chest! And, from the sound of it, that musta hurt! Okay, Charles has never had a street fight. But I reckon, whatever fancy school he went to gave boxing lessons! His full weight went behind that well-planted left. And those print racks are heavy. Lifting those day after day – his arms might look skinny, but maybe he's got those whip-cord kinda muscles?

I don't think Heyes even expected it. He thought there was more yapping to come first. He gasps and… He's furious, but only for a second.

Ouch! Even I wince as the second punch lands on Heyes' jaw. Even Charles winces! He also gives a yelp and sucks his knuckles. I think he just realised why the sport of boxing decided to introduce gloves!

Heyes still doesn't strike back. His fist kinda comes up, then drops.

"You're not even fit to black Nell Meredith's boots!"

Nope. Charles has definitely not mastered fighting insult language. He frowns in frustration. I don't think he can go on hitting a man who won't hit back.

"Aren't you going to fight?"

"Nope," Heyes is gingerly feeling his lip. A trickle of blood snakes down his chin. "You've not said anything I got an argument with yet. I treated Nell bad and I don't deserve for a woman like her to wipe her shoes on a piece of dirt like me, let alone anything else."

Charles straightens up, confused. "If you're not offering for Nell because you think you're not good enough – isn't that her call?"

"I'm not offering because…" He stops. His voice tries to sound light-hearted. It don't fool me, but maybe it fools Charles. I don't reckon Charles can see the misery in Heyes' face without his eye glasses. "Let's just say I'm not the marrying kind."

Ouch again! I think that punch wasn't outta the boxing text book. I think that one was sheer fury. Maybe Charles has a little help from Heyes not even wanting to stay on his feet? Maybe all the cheap whiskey plays a part? Whatever. Heyes' butt hits the dirt.

Charles stares at the man he thought he knew. "How COULD you, Joshua? How could you hurt her like that? How could you make a woman believe you loved her and then…" He breaks off. I guess he thinks he'd done what he came for and anyhow – what's the use. His lip curls, he turns on his heel, collects his glasses from me, picks up his jacket and strides off.

I walk over to Heyes.

"The last question's easy, Kid!" Heyes grunts, as he takes my hand so I can pull him to his feet. "I could make her believe I loved her because it's the truth!"

"Was he right?" I ask. "Have you been – y'know – takin' liberties?" He says nothing, but I can see the answer in his face. He might argue the doc's old enough to know what she's doing – but that ain't fair is it? You're supposed to help decent gals stay straight, not help 'em stray.

I'm so dang mad at him, I could…

I do! My fist curls and I flatten him again. Properly. No way did he deliberately go down this time.

"I told you, Heyes!" I fume. "I told you, leave her alone! Sheesh! All we owe the doc and you… Geddup so I can d*mn well flatten you again! Get up!"

He don't. He don't even raise his eyes to look at me.

You know what I said earlier, 'bout violence solving nothing. It's true, huh? Pounding Heyes isn't gonna help Nell, is it? It's not gonna help no one. Not even me.

I take a few deep breaths. "C'mon, geddup," I repeat more softly, holding out my hand. "Let's get back to our room, get you cleaned up. Maybe the desk clerk'll rustle up a little black coffee an' we can pour it into you. Get some sleep. Like you said, I guess she'll get over it. You both will."

"You go on, Kid. I'll follow."

His voice sounds… I stare at him. His head kinda jerks. He's not… He can't be crying? He CAN'T be. If he is… He CAN'T be! If he is, he won't want me to see. The kindest thing I can do is…

"Don't be long," I grunt. "Early start tomorrow."

---oooOOOooo---


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN **

**NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

I hear Heyes come in but he's moving real quiet and stealthy, so I keep my head in my pillow, watch him through half shut lids. His hair's wet, so maybe he dunked his head in a trough as an alternative to black coffee. He pulls off his boots, but then goes to sit by the window staring into the night.

Next time my eyes flicker open, he's still there. It's no longer night. Not quite anyhow. It's struggling towards dawn.

"You okay?" I yawn, sitting up and having a good scratch. "Have you sat there all night?"

"Nope I'm not okay and, yeah, I've sat here all night. I've been thinking." Pause. "I've been thinking about – 'bout my mother."

Sheesh! Where did that come from?

"I've been thinking about how she and my father were – together. And how me and Helen are – together."

I got nothing to say. I hardly remember his mother. And, what I do remember – I'm never sure if it's ME remembering, or me remembering stuff he told me after. If you know what I mean.

He turns, "Jed…"

He called me Jed. He's not done that for…

"…You know how I agreed it was a lousy idea to tell Nell who I really am?"

"Who WE really are, Heyes." I look at him, "You've changed your mind, huh?"

"Nope. It IS a lousy idea, but I reckon I prefer it to the alternative. Seems to me I've backed myself into a corner where I can be either a lying skunk or just a plain old stinking skunk. I'm gonna stop lying. To her, anyhow. Then, I'm gonna ask her to wait for me to get that amnesty."

"Right," I say. I don't bother to argue. I don't reckon it'll do any good.

Pause.

"You think I'm wrong, dontcha?"

"Well, since it was only the night before last we listened to her mull over how she'd spend the reward money if she'd a chance to hand in outlaws…"

"She wouldn't! She's not… She hasn't got a mean bone in her body, Kid!"

"I dunno, Heyes. D'you need mean bones to prefer new drains for the orphanage – 'specially if'n you're always worryin' over an outbreak of somethin' nasty – over bein' kind to men who…" I can quote her, 'cos it kinda stuck, "Hustle scared mothers, cryin' children and frail old people around at the end of the barrel of a gun to get their hands on easy money?"

He slumps. I think, like me, he trusts Nell to do what she thinks is the right thing. Just, like me, he's not too sure what that might be. However much she loves Joshua Smith, will that stop her doing whatever her conscience tells her is the right thing with Hannibal Heyes?

Then, he draws a deep breath and pulls his boots towards him. "I'm gonna see her, set things straight if I can. If you wanna ride out right now, Kid, that's fine. I'll meet up with you in Red Rock. Otherwise, go get the horses ready to leave before the first train is due. I'll see you back at the livery."

I drop back onto my pillow with a sigh. "Back at the livery it is, then."

"Thanks, Kid."

"Heyes."

"Uh huh?"

"No offence, but after all that whiskey last night, you might wanna clean your teeth, huh?"

He turns back from the door, pours a little water from jug to basin, picks up the jar of toothpowder and a toothbrush. "Thanks, Kid."

As he leaves, I say, "Good luck, Han."

"Thanks, Jed."

---oooOOOooo---

**STILL VERY EARLY THE SAME MORNING – NARRATTED BY NELL**

Across the landing I hear the sound of a squawking, hungry newborn, immediately followed by the sound of besotted new parents cooing and soothing. I can picture Charles scampering to pick him up, then helping Ann prop herself up on the pillows. The squawking stops. The faint murmuring sounds of a happy couple joined in baby-worship continue. How mean does it make me, that listening to my best friends being happy – hurts?

My head aches. In fact, all of me aches. Too much snivelling, complete inability to swallow even a mouthful of food last night, no sleep. Every time I close my eyes, my mind races – what could I have done differently, said differently, to make him come back to me? Why doesn't he WANT to come back to me? Our time by the lake was so – so real. I was so sure he felt the same. Was I simply fooling myself the whole time? I do try to stop the 'what if' thoughts. I try to concentrate on, 'if he doesn't appreciate me, that's his loss!', but ...

Well, we all know trying and succeeding are two different verbs, do we not?

I OUGHT to get some rest. Doctor Cooper came back to the surgery with another long list of visits for tomorrow – I mean, today. He is thinking we may have a bout of chicken-pox doing the rounds of local children. Or should that be – hoping? He is hoping it is nothing worse.

Ping.

So long as it IS nothing worse – good! Not having a minute to spare between work and maximising publicity for the campaign and the trial will be the best thing for me.

Ping.

Huh? That was… Was that the window? I go over, lift up the curtain just as…

Ping. A third piece of gravel hits the glass. Down in the street is…

Anger warring with stupid, surging hope floods through me. I push up the sash.

"Helen," he hisses. "Come down to the lake. Please. I got something to say."

"Why don't you knock on the front door and come say it here?" I hiss back.

"'Cos – I don't think I'm real welcome in Charles' house any more."

Well, maybe. But, if he had something worth hearing, by which I really mean an abject and unreserved apology immediately followed by a sensible, unequivocal proposal, he WOULD be welcome and he would go round the front and knock. If it is anything else – I do not think I want to hear it. All anything else he has to say will do is prolong the agony.

"I'll be in the usual place and I'll wait an hour. Then, I must go. Please, co..."

I have shut the window and dropped the curtain before he finishes. If he thinks I am SO besotted with him that I'll… Ooooh! He'll wait an hour, will he? He'll have to wait longer than that for me to…

I wonder what he wants to say?

Not that I care.

I glance at the clock. He will wait an hour. An hour from now – or from when he gets there?

Not that it makes any difference – since I am not going.

I will just get dressed because – well, because it is too late, or should that be too early, to sleep now, so I may as well get up.

Five minutes later I am washed, dressed and staring at the clock.

I am not going.

Ten minutes later… Fifteen minutes later… Tick tock, tick tock.

Oh, for Pete's sake – who am I fooling?

I AM going.

I can either pace the floor for half an hour then race down to the lake worrying I have missed him – or I can admit the truth now and set off now. Both are dumb options, but one will get me all hot and sweaty and one will not.

I grab my shawl and slip quietly out of the house.

I am not going because I expect to hear – anything. Oh, no!

I am simply going to give him a well-deserved piece of my mind WITHOUT my lip wobbling this time.

---oooOOOooo---

His face lights up, "You came!" He runs towards me, takes my hands. "Helen, you came."

Now, I must his being overjoyed to see me is soothing to my bruised vanity. He has not taken it for granted I will show up. He is…

No. NO!

I push him away before his lips meet mine.

I will not be wound around his little finger by the charm and the dimpled smile.

"What did you want to say?" My voice sounds shaky. Steady, Nell, steady. Do NOT get your hopes up.

He braces himself. So do I.

"First, whatever else you think, I want you to believe I love you. I love you AND, I'm gonna ask you to marry me."

Yes! YES! Or, in honour of being out west, Yee-hah!

"No, strike that…"

Oh! No!

"I'm gonna fall on my knees, kiss your feet and BEG you to marry me…"

Be still my heart! YES!

"But before I do, there's something I hafta tell you, Helen. I've not been completely straight with you. There's something you hafta know about me, before you say whether or not you'll marry me."

Pause. More pause. If we only have – er – around twenty minutes.

"What is it, Joshua?"

"That's kinda it. My name's not Joshua Smith."

Huh?

"It's Hannibal Heyes."

For a moment, I register nothing. Then, I recall all the speculation Fred Tammett indulged in after the Butler boys were brought to town.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I already know it is not. His face tells me that. "You're a criminal?"

"Me and you both, huh, Helen?"

It is not funny. If he is Hannibal Heyes…

"You're THE Hannibal Heyes? The one who leads a gang of armed robbers? The one who holds up trains and banks? The one with a ten thousand dollar reward on his head?"

"Right verbs, wrong tense. Except for the last part. I held up trains and banks. I led a gang. Not now. Back in the summer of 1880, we – I went straight. I've been straight ever since. I'm hoping for an amnesty. I kinda got a promise from the Governor of Wyoming…"

"Wyoming?" I cannot take this in. When did we switch states to Wyoming?

"It's where I'm wanted. That bit about the reward's still present tense until the amnesty comes through. I can't say how long that'll be…"

He is holding my hands, gazing earnestly into my face. Talking and talking. I am not sure I even hear all he says. There is some sheriff called Trevors who is his contact with the Governor. He has to stay out of trouble. It was to be a year, but it has been… The amnesty is coming very soon. He is sure. Except – he is not really sure. He is just hoping. Some judge who knows him is due in town. That is why he has to leave. Besides, he cannot risk being here when journalists and photographers start to arrive. Let alone other lawmen. He has to leave before the first train comes in. That only gives us…

No. I certainly do not hear it all. Partly because my head is still throbbing from a long, long sleepless night. Partly because this cannot be real. First Joshua Smith, the man I love, walks out on me. Then, he comes back – only to say he never even existed. All the dreams I had built of a home together, a life together, come tumbling down around my ears for the second time in twenty four hours.

He has stopped talking. He is looking at me waiting for an answer. To – what?

"Huh?" I say.

"I asked if you'd wait for me, Helen?"

I do not know! How can I? He is…

"Why did you do it, Joshu…?" I stop. He is NOT Joshua. Almost the first thing he ever said to me, 'I'm Joshua Smith', was a lie. And, he has been lying ever since. When I was in his arms, my lips murmuring his name against his skin, into his hair - it was not even HIS name.

"Why did I rob banks? Or, why did I go straight?"

"No – well, YES! I suppose I want to ask both of those. But, I meant, why did you lie to me? No, that's stupid. I can see why you lied at first. But, why did you carry on lying? Why didn't you trust me?"

"I did try to tell you."

I pucker my forehead. I remember. That?! He calls THAT trying to tell me!

"You didn't try very hard! I distinctly remember the following words were conspicuous by their absence: Hannibal, Heyes, outlaw, armed robbery, large scale theft, intimidation, violent crime…"

His face hardens a touch. "I'm telling you now!" he interrupts.

"It's a little late, NOW! According to you, NOW I have ten minutes to make up my mind about the rest of my life!"

"I'm still telling you! I didn't have to tell you, but I did! And, listen Helen, I owe you an apology for deceiving you, I owe you an apology for hurting you, but I'm not gonna stand here apologising for everything I've been in the last dozen years. If I could change it – I would. I can't. You can flash your eyes and do the outraged voice all you like, it won't change a thing! The only thing I CAN change is the future. I'm trying to do that. I've gone straight."

His voice is sharp, verging on angry. He did not like my list of words conspicuous by their absence earlier one little bit. Good! He was not meant to!

I stare at him, "How do I know you've gone straight?"

"You have my word."

"Pffttt!"

"Do you think I'm a liar?"

"I KNOW you're a liar!"

He opens his mouth, realises he cannot deny that, shuts it. Then, "I'm not lying about going straight. I'm not lying about they way I feel about you. I think you believe me. If you don't – it's a lost cause anyhow, huh? You just said, we've got less than ten minutes. Don't waste it going in circles."

All right. He is saying he has changed. He is…

"Why did you go straight? Did you…?" I search. I do not want to ask, did he see the error of his ways; it is such a cliché.

"Helen, I'd like to tell you it was all from the best of motives. But, it was mainly 'cos safes were getting harder to crack, posses were getting smarter and I didn't wanna spend twenty years in prison, or die young, bleeding in the street." Pause. "I reckon there mighta been some better motives too. I just never needed to examine 'em. And, if I HAD examined 'em – that woulda meant thinking through why it took me more'n ten years to quit thieving. Wouldn't it? I will say – being honest grows on a man, just like crime does. And, these last few months I've had the biggest motive a man could have to STAY straight."

"Why did you rob banks?"

"It's where they kept the money."

He has clearly given that glib answer before, it comes out so fast. It is NOT funny! Well, it IS funny, but not now!

"I'm sorry, Helen. I shouldn't have… I guess I give a dumb answer 'cos… Let's say it's a question I've thought about over the years and I still haven't come up with a smart answer."

"I'll settle for a mediocre answer!"

"For the money. For the excitement. 'Cos I was good at it. Better than good, I was the best. 'Cos once you ARE wanted it's hard to do anything except keep running and keep robbing. 'Cos I fooled myself I was only stealing from folk who had money to lose. 'Cos I was a skinny, mixed-up kid who had nothing and it seemed some folk had everything. 'Cos it didn't seem much worse than all the stuff going on around me after the War. 'Cos the safes were there – calling to me! 'Cos it don't happen all at once – you start off stealing to live, or to stay in good with fellas who'll let you belong somewhere for a change and it gets to be a habit. 'Cos there didn't seem a lotta choices…"

"Can you HEAR yourself?" I explode. "How many choices do you need?! Shall I stick this gun into the face of someone who has never done me any harm and demand money with menaces – or not? How hard is it to pick the 'not' option?"

Pause.

"It don't seem like that when young and angry and hungry, Helen. You're dumb enough to think it's something - I dunno… You're so keyed up about what might go wrong and how you might let the gang down, you don't think much about the folk on the other side." He is watching my face closely. "It's not the stealing bothering you, is it?" His voice sounds almost hopeless. "It's the guns."

"Of course it's the guns! I'm a doctor! I know what a bullet does to a body. The first time you were involved in a holdup, didn't you FEEL how wrong it was?"

Silence.

"If you didn't feel it was wrong the first time, did it not start to dawn on you by the hundredth time? After all, you carried on choosing the, 'yes I will threaten an innocent person with injury or death' option for years! Long after you stopped being the mixed-up, dumb youth with some excuse! You'd grown into one of the most intelligent men I've ever met! How COULD you?"

Silence.

"Didn't I always tell you, you were far too good for me," he says, finally.

"You were right! Not that it's any great compliment! Being too good for a notorious outlaw is not the steepest hurdle to clear, is it?"

"Careful, Helen, if you climb any further up onto that moral high ground of yours, you might get dizzy from lack of oxygen! Besides, don't the halo get kinda heavy?" His hands go to his hips. "I'm not gonna say you're wrong, 'cos you're right. I always did my best to make sure no one got hurt – and mostly it worked. Not always, but mostly. If I could keep it friendly and put folk at ease – I did. BUT, yeah, the whole thing depended on folk being frightened enough to believe we'd put a bullet in 'em if they didn't do as they were told. Let's accept that everything you can say about the outlaw life is true. You win. Let's move on. That life's in the past. The outlaw me is in the past. Stick with NOW. I'm being honest with you NOW. The man I am NOW, is in love with you. You told me you loved me..."

"NO! I told Joshua Smith I loved him!"

My riposte cuts over him as he asks, "…Will you wait for me to be free to marry you?"

I do not know! The right answer is so clearly no. But, no feels so wrong! No means…

He checks his watch. "I hafta leave, Helen. I need an answer."

This is NOT fair! If he were… When will the amnesty come through? Suppose we…? No, it is NOT fair! I do not even KNOW him! How much of what we talked about all those mornings was just – made up?

He could have told me!

The brown eyes drop. "I guess I got my answer, huh? I need to know you won't hand me over to the law."

How DARE he? He is running away to save his skin and now… How dare he think handing him in would even cross my mind? Anger flares up.

"Good point! After all, ten thousand dollars will go a long way on good causes and tins of halo polish!"

"Don't joke. I know you're angry with me, but I can't let you give me away."

"How do you intend to stop me?"

He catches my wrist. "Listen, if it were just me… But it's NOT just me – is it? That's the other reason I wasn't honest with you earlier. This is not just MY secret."

What? Oh! I see.

"You mean Thaddeus is…" I have forgotten the name. "He's whatshisname."

"Yup. He's the other fella."

A big chunk of my anger dissipates. I see where some of his hesitancy that morning down by the lake came from. He WAS trying to tell me, but baulked at betraying a friend. I can appreciate that. I want to be the most important person in Joshua's… Well, until this morning I wanted to be the most important person in this man's life, but I have no desire to be the only important person.

"You can tell," I STILL cannot remember his name, "your partner, he has nothing to worry about from me. I won't say a word. You have my promise."

"And – US, Helen?"

I turn away from him. "I think you'd better go."

---oooOOOooo---

**THAT SAME MORNING – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

I've settled our bills at the hotel and livery. The bags are packed; the horses are saddled; all I need is Heyes.

He's late. We really oughta get going 'cos…

It might be better for us – okay, better for ME – if she turns him down flat. We'd go back to… I shake the thought away. He's my best friend. All the family I got. I want him safe, sure. But, I also want him having a chance to be happy.

He's still not here. I swing myself into my saddle and lead his horse a few more paces in the direction of the lake. I'm wary of busting in on anything – private, but we hafta get outta here. I see a familiar battered black hat appear over the rise.

"How'd it go?"

He don't answer. Maybe he don't hear. There's a breeze and he's a few yards off still.

"You're late. The train's already in. I watched the folk arriving from behind the livery. Sure was the start of a crowd. How'd it go with Nell?"

"Uh huh? Was Hanley on the train?"

He heard me that time. So – what happened? He's wearing a poker face. I don't think it went well.

"Nope. No sign of Hanley. But guess who did show up?"

He mounts up.

"I'm not in the mood for guessing games, Kid. Tell me."

I tell him.

"For Pete's sake! Again! What is he? Half carrier pigeon with some kinda homing device set to us?! We could go to Timbuktu and still lay odds, sooner or later, HE'D show up!"

That's kinda an exaggeration – but I know how Heyes feels.

"We gotta get out of here, Heyes."

"That's what the horses are for, Kid." He sniffs the air. "I vote, we head west." He is riding away before I can reply.

I touch my heels to the side of my grey, close the distance between us.

"Heyes, how'd it go?"

"How'd what go?"

"With Nell."

"Oh, that?" His face twists for a moment. He shrugs, "It wasn't a yes, Kid."

Know what? I don't feel any relief. Not even for a second. My heart sinks for him.

Then, there's a return of the Heyes grin. He urges his horse to a gallop. Hoof beats almost drown out his words, but I think I pick up, "'Course, that don't mean I'm giving up!"


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN **

**MONTHS LATER – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

I stretch out on the bed. I'm not planning to fall asleep, you understand, I'm simply digesting a good supper and resting my eyes, while appreciating the softness of goose-down pillows.

This is a nice place. Not the town. Hereford's pretty much the usual for cattle country. Full of cowboys drinking and gambling their wages away come the weekend. 'S'okay. But THIS place, the boarding house Mrs. Flowers runs, is real nice. Fine home cooking, clean sheets, rooms that smell of beeswax and wild flowers.

We've been here just over a week. We came 'cos it was the next place on the map once we'd finished a delivery job for some friend of Big Mac's. We're not down to our last dollar; not even near it, 'cos we – brace yourselves – got paid what we were owed. And, Heyes won us a tidy sum at the table Saturday. We're kinda half hoping to hear, through Lom, about another job from Colonel Harper. And, why would we move on when no one's so much as looked at us twice?

There's a lotta blessings to count as I lay here. But…

The thing is, a few days after we arrived, Heyes…

I guess the best way to put it is; this is the week Heyes finally gave up.

---oooOOOooo---

After we left Arcadia, we almost got back to normal. Spotting someone we knew – moving on. Scenting trouble – moving on. Hearing about a possible job in the next town – moving on. It wasn't quite the same. I noticed Heyes didn't drink as much as he used to, didn't seem quite as keen on poker lasting into the small hours. D'you know what? At first I thought it might not all be down to Nell. I'm starting to feel, myself, that a clear head in the morning four or five days outta the seven has something to be said for it. I guess neither of us is twenty-two anymore. But a few days after we left Arcadia, I'd got talking to some saloon gal and noticed Heyes'd snuck off. (So far as THAT goes, since we left Arcadia, he's been living the life of a nun. And I don't mean the kinda nun that steals funds from the bank and hides out in disguise, neither!) When I got back to our room a coupla hours later I found him at the table with what to me looked like a whole ream of paper. He looked round, half guilty, and kinda covered it with his hands, then realised how dumb that was and tried to look – er – nonchalant. Yeah, that's it, nonchalant.

"You're back early," he said.

"Makes two of us then, don't it?" I glanced at the pages of scribble in front of him. "Is that a letter? You're writin' to the doc, huh?"

Well, who else COULD he have been writing to? Most of our friends don't have addresses! Half of 'em can't read!

"Remind me to hire you out to the Bannerman agency, Kid. Deductive ability like that shouldn't be wasted."

"What are you writin' about?" He looked at me. I kinda flushed. I didn't want him to think I wanted any kiss and tell. Not about Nell. "I mean apart from the mushy stuff."

"Nothing." He realised this made him sound about fifteen. "Leastways, I'm just telling her we're both fine and wishing her all the best now the trial's started."

"Uh huh?" I stared at the pages and pages of paper. If that's all he was saying, it had to be one repetitive letter. I know he can spin stuff out and Nell likes reading but, sheesh! I didn't mean it to, but my head tilted to one side and…_'Those questions you had about my past and about the decision to change course back in the summer of '80; they sure couldn't be answered in the time we had Tuesday, I'm not sure they can be answered at all, but I'm going to try…'_

"Hey!" The letter was turned over and I was given a look to end all looks. Which I guess I deserved.

Three or four times over the next weeks I saw Heyes, still being nonchalant as he could, reach into his jacket and produce a fat letter addressed to Dr. H. E. A. Meredith when we were somewhere with a mail service. AND, there mighta been more, 'cos I'm sure he only took them out in fronta me when he had no choice.

---oooOOOooo---

At the start, Heyes was like a cat on hot bricks every time we came to a place that might have a newspaper. I'll admit I was keen to know how things had gone with the trial too. Trouble was, there was so much guff printed on both sides, it was kinda hard to pick out the facts. There were photographs too. Most were of Ann, some with, some without, her baby. Some were of both girls. Mind you, by the time I got to look, a coupla newspapers had neatly clipped squares missing, so I don't know I even saw all the pictures. I held one up and peered through it.

"What d'ya think, Heyes? Paper moths?"

"It'll be some fella clipping an advertisement, Kid."

Yeah, right! These days his saddlebags rustle!

One night, after arriving in a fresh town soaked to the skin, tired and hungry, Heyes pounced on a journal a few days old; his face fell, then lit up, then kinda half fell again.

"Well?" I'd said.

"Huh?"

"What happened?"

"They were found guilty, but…"

"WHAT? What was that dang jury thinkin'?"

"Probably thinking of the law. The judge had no choice but to direct 'em according to the words in the Act, Kid. They WERE guilty. Guilty as weasels coming outta a henhouse with egg-yolk dripping from their whiskers. BUT, the summing up and the fact he fined 'em the minimum he could…"

"That means they're all right then? They just got fined?"

"Huh?" he grunts, not even listening to me.

I tried to pluck the paper outta Heyes' hands to read for myself. He twitched it outta reach, then, since it was no use to either of us held at full stretch, he spread it on the table so we could share.

Judge Hanley had said the law originally targeted _'obscene, lewd, lascivious or filthy' _books and pictures – the real dirty stuff that had started to flood outta New York right after the war – though the paper called it _'material whose dominant theme taken as a whole appeals to the prurient interest' _and is '_utterly without redeeming social importance'_. He'd said just 'cos this fella Comstock got something written about how to '_prevent conception'_ added to a mile long list of things banned on one of hundreds of bills rushed through without debate, as a Congress surrounded by scandal tried to redeem itself with a spate of creditable legislation in its final hours… There was a good bit of this guff. Anyhow, HE'D said he didn't intend any court he had a say in to lock up two ladies who'd be more use to everyone bringing up a baby, or looking after sick folk, for writing a pamphlet aiming to give medical advice, in plain spoken English, calling things by their right names, that folk could use or ignore or not as they chose.

Heyes was done before me. "It's what they call a moral victory, Kid," he said. He has GOT to stop with the dang books.

---oooOOOooo---

Soon after that, I realised Heyes wasn't just mailing letters out. He was hoping for something back. Whenever we stayed anywhere more'n a few days, or knew ahead of time where we were heading, Heyes would come over all nonchalant (again!) in the telegraph office and ask if there were any messages for Joshua Smith.

The first time, I pointed out we weren't expecting nothing more from Lom for a few weeks.

He shrugged, "No harm in asking, Kid."

I caught on. "Heyes, are you mailin' out where we are and where we're goin'?" No answer, but the look on his face meant I didn't need one. "Ain't that kinda risky? I mean, even acceptin' Nell won't hand us in, letters can get read, mail can get stolen. We KNOW mail can get stolen!"

"I'm not using our real names, Kid! I'm not dumb! AND, I keep what I say in any letter with a town in it – y'know – oblique."

"HUH?"

"If'n folk read 'em – they wouldn't necessarily know what I was talking about."

"Not if they're full of words like oblique, they won't!" I stared at him. "Seems to me, if she don't know what you're talking about, what's the point?"

"SHE'LL know. Nell's sharp enough to turn oblique back to a right angle."

Huh?

"D'you geddit? Oblique – right angle?"

No! I didn't get it! It sounded like the dumb kinda thing SHE used to laugh at. I rolled my eyes.

"Look, Kid. I'm not giving up! I reckon if she can believe I've really changed – that the amnesty's not JUST about staying alive and staying outta jail…"

"It AIN'T?"

"Well, is it?"

He gave me a real straight look. And - I guess he's right.

We don't talk about it much, but…

Okay. We wanna stay alive. We wanna stay outta jail.

We want each other to stay alive and outta jail. But, there IS a bit more to it than that.

And, if that something more started off kinda small and shy and sheepish, it's been getting stronger as going straight sinks in.

IF we were told we could go back to robbing and never get caught or killed – I reckon we'd still want that amnesty. I know I would.

I'm not saying we're up there with the kinda folk who do good deeds like it's natural. We're not, are we?

But…

There was something Nell said about being a doctor once that stuck in my mind: 'first, do no harm'. I reckon both me and Heyes got there, wanting to do no harm, a while back. And, I reckon some of the things the girls said kinda made us realise there's more to doing no harm than simply not being the one to start any trouble.

I shrug, "I guess."

His voice stayed low, "I want her to know I'm trying. I'm trying to be the man she wanted – the man she thought I could be - even when she's not there to see it."

Maybe that accounts for some of the quiet nights in?

So, anyhow, there we were. Heyes haunting telegraph offices and annoying the clerks: 'It's Joshua Smith – 'Ess, Em, Eye, Tea, Aitch – to await collection. It mighta been here a while? You sure? Look again, would ya? If'n anything comes in, you'll find me at the hotel.', It ain't easy to do that AND stay nonchalant, but I'll say this for Heyes – he almost pulled it off!

He'd be downcast at drawing a blank, sure. Then I'd see him talk himself round about how it hadn't been that long. Maybe the message had arrived at the LAST town just too late. Or it'd be waiting at the next town. Maybe she was still unsure. Maybe he needed to be more persuasive. And, sometimes I'd see another fat letter sent off to Arcadia, sometimes I just guessed it had gone.

Then, after we arrived here in Hereford, he – he gave up.

It was the second telegram we'd had from Lom that did it. The second after we'd left Arcadia that is. The first had come through to Red Rock. Heyes had pounced on it, read it, re-read it, re-read it again. I saw his face had fallen more than the usual 'no change from our mutual friend' droop.

"You were expecting to hear from Nell? You told her a sure way to get in touch was through Lom, huh?"

He shrugged a yes, "I guess even I've not got SO dumb, Kid, that I don't realise I can't mail out an 'X' marks the spot of where we are ALL the time."

"It's not been long, Heyes," I'd said. "She might not even have got your letter yet."

I didn't really think that was likely but, it was possible.

But, by the time we got a telegram from Lom in Hereford, it wasn't possible. It's not really been possible for a few weeks now. I hadn't seen any letter heading out from Heyes for near on ten days.

He read the telegram from Lom. It told us no change so far as the Governor's concerned and to wait around if'n we could as he might hear from Colonel Harper. That was it. No message from Nell. Nothing. Not even something – what was it – oblique.

I saw the hope finally die outta Heyes' eyes.

Part of me knows the only sensible thing IS for him to give up, but…

Watching him…

"The trial's been over ages now," I say. "We could go back to Arcadia. Most likely all the folk we're avoidin' have left. We could scout it out first, make sure. IF Hanley did stay on with Sheriff Fraser for the fishin' – you could do what you did with Clitterhouse that time…"

"'Cos that worked out so dang well, huh?"

"Yeah, but we KNOW Hanley's got an honest streak. You could go see him, discrete like…"

"Kid…"

"We know he won't turn us in for the money. If'n he tells us to head outta town – what have we lost?"

"Kid…" There was a pause. Then, "Me being able to go back isn't really the point. If she really don't want me to…" Another pause. I think he didn't like saying it. "If she really don't want me, isn't the right thing for me to leave her alone? Not go raking it all up again."

I dunno. I guess. I dunno. His face looked so bleak.

"Maybe she's waiting for you to…"

"She's not, Kid. I…" I waited for him to carry on. "The last coupla times I wrote, I told her I wouldn't put her in that position. I'd stay away until she decided. I – I asked… Nah, I'll be honest, I begged her to get in touch. Just a word. Just to put me outta… 'Yes', 'no' or 'need more time'. That's all I asked for. A word. If it was no forever – to tell me…"

I don't say anything.

The silence goes on for a long time. His brow darkens. "D*mn her! D*MN her, Kid! I did my best to be straight with her. Sure, I was using the alias, but apart from that I didn't tell her nothing that wasn't true. Apart from… Not about me and her. Not about how I felt. Okay. She's decided I'm not good enough – but am I so...? She stood up at that dang debate and reeled off a speech 'bout how even criminals still deserved to be treated with dignity. And now… I'd understand a 'no', Kid. Couldn't blame her, huh? But, don't I deserve the courtesy of an answer? She said she loved… D*MN her! Self-satisfied, smug, stony-hearted…"

I still don't say anything. I guess I'm kinda surprised at the doc. Heyes isn't being what you'd call impartial as he sounds off, but – yeah. I reckon she'd'a done better to send a brief word if'n their last meeting left things a touch – unsettled. It's what I'd have expected of her. Mind you, I suppose if Nell IS nursing a grudge, I can understand that too.

"Look on the bright side, Kid," the eyes that met mine looked anything but bright, "…I'll be better company, huh? Like the old days. We can get back to the way we were. Women – leastways the kinda women that want more'n a few drinks and a few dollars - who needs 'em?"

That night was not like the way we were. Sure, on the surface, Heyes was back to playing poker into the small hours, letting the whiskey flow, using that smart silver tongue on the working gals, but…

The next night, I – I left him to it. Maybe I am getting old.

Nah, it's not that.

Listen; I like having a few drinks – followed by a few more, I like smoking cigars, I like playing poker, I like the company of a saloon gal good enough at her job to make you forget she's getting paid to pretend to enjoy your company, BUT, I reckon I'd rather spend every evening of my life swilling lemonade and listening to dull debating circles with a cheerful Heyes, than do all the supposedly fun stuff with this fella who looks and talks and acts like Heyes, but with none of the sparkle.

Getting happy drunk for the sheer pleasure of the thing – fine. Getting mean drunk to teach some gal a hundred miles away, who'll never even know anyhow, a lesson – count me out.

---oooOOOooo---

He's at the saloon now. Well, I guess he is. He missed supper. Again! Mrs. Flowers is getting used to Heyes missing meals. We've paid for full board anyhow – so, I guess she don't mind. He was full of the usual charm before the telegram arrived, so I reckon she still sees him that way. She has this kinda fantasy he's out on business. I smile, give the occasional 'uh huh' or 'yes ma'am' and try to make sure she don't hafta see his portion of her good food going to waste.

I'll go join him later. Must digest first. And, I'm going because someone oughta watch his back – it being a Saturday night – not 'cos I want to. Still early yet. Too early for anyone to have lost their week's wages, that means too early for trouble to start. I'll just relax for…

Vaguely I hear the sounds of someone tapping at the front door, sounds of female voices in the hallway. It will be one of Mrs. Flowers' friends, probably come for a game of whist and a glass of elderflower…

A squeak of excitement. Boots running up the stairs, sounds like they're being taken two at a time. My eyes snap open; not that I was drifting off to sleep, you understand, just thinking. The door to our room bursts open before I can do more than swing my feet to the floor and make a grab for my gunbelt.

"Joshu…Oh! Hello, Thaddeus."

It's NELL! It's HER! She looks… She don't look too good.

"Nell! You're here!" Okay, it's not the brightest of remarks, but – hey – I've been caught on the hop here. I forget the gunbelt and hurry to tuck in my shirt and re-button my pants with a bit of an effort – digesting remember?

She's saying, "Where's Joshua?" and looking around the room as if I mighta hidden Heyes under the bed, or in a cupboard, when another set of footsteps – heavier and slower – reaches the top of the stairs.

"Mister Jones!" explodes Mrs. Flowers, "…I told both you and Mister Smith, I do not allow gentlemen boarders to receive visits in their rooms from lady friends! As for YOU, young lady…"

"Dr. Meredith," says Nell, cutting Mrs. Flowers with a friendly smile. She holds out her hand, politely, "How do you do? I am SO sorry, ma'am. You see it is a long time since I have seen Mr. Jones and I was so happy to discover I had found the right place…"

Mrs. Flowers stares hard at Nell and calms down a little. I think Nell musta rushed past her so fast when she heard she'd found the right place, Mrs. Flowers didn't get a good look at her. Now she can see Nell looks like a lady and hear she talks like a lady. I reckon the fact whatever expression I've got on MY face, it sure ain't 'amorous' helps too. She takes the offered hand.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. But, you see the thing is, I have my house's reputation to…"

"Of course, ma'am. Do you have a parlour where your boarders may receive guests? Then Mister Jones can join me." One of the old Nell grins appears. "Once he's got the right buttons in the right holes," I glance down; she's right, I am crooked as a card trick, "…And pulled his boots on. AND, unless you have a vacancy yourself, ma'am, could you recommend somewhere respectable I can get a room? I'll be staying in Hereford, for tonight at any rate."

Another appraising look from Mrs. Flowers. Another friendly smile from Nell. She looks – I dunno what's been happening to her. Maybe looking plain as a pikestaff does her no harm at all with our respectable landlady.

"Certainly," says Mrs. Flowers, "The parlour is the second door on the left as you came in. You're welcome to it, I'm sure; and I'll make you some coffee. As for a room, I only take gentlemen boarders…" She scans Nell for any sign of disappointment, finds none. I think she finally decides Nell is okay. "My cousin Mrs. Roddick, on South Street, takes lady paying guests. I'm sure she could accommodate you."

"Thank you, ma'am. Thaddeus, I'll wait for you downstairs." Her eyes command me to hurry up, then Nell leaves.

"Is this lady an old friend, Mister Jones?"

"Er – kinda. Well, not that old, I guess. She's my – or rather she WAS my doctor… I was laid up after an accident back in April, in Arcadia…"

Mrs. Flowers blinks in surprise. "Your DOCTOR?" Then, "Arcadia?" I guess it IS one hell of a distance to travel. "She's gone to a lot of trouble to come visit you."

"I guess…" She is clearly hoping for a little more. "I better go down, ma'am."

I do go down. I spot a small carpet bag dropped in the hall, which hasta be Nell's. I get followed into the parlour, but once Mrs. Flowers has done fussing that Nell is comfortable, she heads off to make not coffee, but – at my request 'cos I know what the doc likes – a pot of tea.

"Oh, Thaddeus…" The doc interrupts herself, "You don't mind me still calling you Thaddeus Jones, do you? Even when we're alone."

"Nope," I say. "Suits me just fine. I'd like you to stick with that ALL the time. Please. I think you should call Joshua, Joshua all the time too."

She grins again, 'cos it's pretty clear I really, really mean that!

"It's SO good to see you, Thaddeus. I tried Twin Forks and Woodford and…" She is taking off her hat as she says this, setting it down on the table.

"Sheesh, Nell!" I exclaim, "What the Sam Hill happened to you?"

"Oh!" She touches her shorn head, self-consciously. "I've been ill. Which is ridiculous for a doctor! They cut off all my hair while I was in a fever." Her hand strays for a moment to her face, "…The spots are fading, and the chances are my eyelashes will grow back. Maybe they will, anyhow. Am I hideous? Will Joshua think I'm… Will he be back soon?"

No. The chances of Heyes coming back at all before the small hours – if then - are pretty small.

"I'll go fetch him," I say.

"Thaddeus," she touches my arm, "…Is it all true? He's been trying to live up to everything I could ever hope for – all these months?"

I think of the last week. I draw my hand back behind my leg, cross my fingers. "I guess." It's mostly true. I mean, it's been true mosta the time. "I dunno, Nell. You'd better ask HIM, huh? I'll go fetch him," I repeat.

Please be half-ways sober and not nekkid under the covers with a saloon gal when I find you, Heyes, 'cos I don't guess Nell will put up with being lied to twice. And you and me might not see it that way, but I reckon she sure will.

"Yes, I must speak to him. What must he think of me, ignoring his letters? Refusing to respond to a plain question. You see I haven't…"

Then, Mrs. Flowers comes back in with a laden tray and Nell shuts up.

"Nothing for me, thank you, ma'am. I'm gonna go find Joshua; tell him we have a visitor."

---oooOOOooo---

Once I'm out in the street I take a deep breath of the cooling late evening air. Wow. She's not written, she's turned up in person. AND, it sounds like he was wrong to think she'd been stone-walling his letters. AND, it sounds like she's been on the road looking for him a fair few days. Wow.

I stride off towards the rougher end of town, where the saloons are clustered. Last time Heyes mentioned Nell's name, there's no getting away from it, he was one bitter, angry man. If he blows it now… I'll… Well, I guess I'll do not much, 'cos what can I do? But, before I do nothing much, I'll flatten him. Again!

He's in the Broken Arrow. It's getting real crowded in there, but I spot him at one of the tables. He's winning. Not big yet – but the pile of money in fronta him's starting to grow. His hat's pushed back and his mouth's smiling, but... When he glances over at some tough-looking fella calling him – no. There's no smile in the eyes. One of the working gals has smelt a winner and is cosied up to him, cooing away as he lays down a full house and pulls the pot towards him. She gets pulled close and kissed real long and deep, then his eyes go back to the deck he's shuffling. I glance at the bottle beside him – near empty; then I take another look at the eyes. Sheesh.

Edging through the press of bodies, I work my way over to his table.

"Joshua." Nothing. "JOSHUA!"

His glance comes up. The look stays cold, even for me. We haven't been getting on too well, this last week. He's taking it out on me – 'cos, I guess, who else is there? And I've made it pretty dang plain what I think of the 'if-she-don't-care-neither-do-I' act. Leastways, I've made it pretty clear of what I think of the act when all it does is leave him so miserable he wants to climb inside a bottle.

He raises his eyebrows, "What?"

"You got a visitor – back at the boarding house."

For a moment there's a fleeting glimpse of the old Heyes. If there is one thing me and him don't like it's a surprise visitor. He tenses, reads my face, relaxes. I'm not here on a 'we're-about-to-be-spotted-let's-ride' errand.

"Tell him I'm busy."

"I think you should come back…"

"Are you deaf, I SAID – I'm busy!"

"Listen, fella," this is the tough looking fella in a buckskin waistcoat talking, "…We're playin' poker here. Your friend told you – he ain't going nowhere. Now, why don't you run tell this visitor to call again in the mornin' and stop interruptin' our game."

I'm not here to start no trouble so I let this pass with no more'n a look.

"Joshua, it's…"

"He don't care WHO it is," says buckskin-waistcoat. The fella has a point, 'cos Heyes ain't even listening to me. He's dealing; the tapered fingers flicking cards expertly across the table. "Smith's staying to give us all a chance to win our money back. You go tell this other fella to wait. And, if he don't like that, tell him to go **** himself."

A few sniggers. I still don't rise to it – 'cos if I wanna have a fight with a dumb, bad-tempered ass who's letting the whiskey talk – hey! – I can do that with the fella in the black hat any night of the week.

"It's a lady, Joshua," I say, real low, but not low enough.

A few whistles. More sniggers. Pouting and snuggling from the saloon gal.

"Tell you what, you go **** HER! Keep it warm for me! I'll be along when the game's…"

That's it! I grab him by both shoulders, drag him and his chair around so he's no longer facing the table, he's facing me. "I don't think you heard me, Joshua! I said, a LADY. I meant, a LADY. If you got one more dirty word to say, you come an' say it outside! Now!" He stares up at me, black fury in his face at first, then – as it sinks in; hope, fresh anger, stubbornness, disbelief.

"You don't mean…?"

"Uh huh. Now come on…"

A mulish look settles on his face, "I ain't so sure I wanna be whistled to heel after…"

"This visitor's been ill. That's why she's a little – a little behind in her correspondence. Now, geddup!"

That sinks in too. Hope, hope, hope, disbelief, hope, fear, hope, hope. He gets up; not too steadily. He can play poker by instinct. Walking straight, that might be a shade too complicated right now. He gathers his winnings.

"HEY!" This is buckskin-waistcoat talking. "I dunno about not hearin' your baby-faced friend, here, you're sure not hearin' me! You're not leavin' with forty dollars of my money! Not after you said you were stayin'! Not just to go sniff after some cheap piece o' tail…"

D'you know what? If he hadn't said that last bit, I reckon I'da kept my temper. As it is, I wheel round. "Y'know what I just said to HIM, I reckon it goes for you too! You got one more word to say – you come say it outside!"

Buckskin-waistcoat jumps to his feet, face purpling with anger. His right hand hovers over his gun. Chairs are pushed back. Folk move from behind me and from behind buckskin. A hush falls. The gal that was wrapped around Heyes looks scared. The usual kinda scene when trouble starts. He looks at me, at my tied-down scofield in the well-worn holster, back up at my face, calm now as it always is when I'm waiting for the other fella to draw. A long pause. He gulps.

"No offence meant," he mutters. He sits down, eyes flicking between me and the table.

Fine. I nod a silent 's'orright'. I'm sure not here to pick a fight. "Gimme that money, Joshua," I say.

Heyes opens his mouth to object – I reckon that's instinct too – remembers he don't care the snap of his fingers about money right now, hands over the crumpled pile of notes. I hand twenty dollars to the saloon gal.

"I want you to go fetch this table a few bottles of the real good stuff – courtesy of my friend Joshua Smith here…" Sounds of thirsty approval from the other players. I peel off another twenty, toss it onto the table, "This is from him to keep the pot warm, since he does hafta leave kinda sudden."

Buckskin-waistcoat shuffles in his seat. Once you've been made to look small the other fella being nice is no dang comfort, is it?

"And this…" I tuck another ten dollars into the working gal's hand, "Is for you to go buy yourself somethin' real pretty, Sweetheart."

Pocketing the rest – which I'm guessing is not too much more'n what Heyes arrived with – away. I touch my hat, "Enjoy your game, fellas," and lead Heyes away to cheerful murmurs from all bar one of them.

Once we're in – not a quiet corner; there AIN'T a quiet corner – a corner where no one's paying us no mind, Heyes puts a gloved hand on my shoulder. "She's really here, Kid?"

"Uh huh."

"Why?"

Why?! What does he mean – why?

"I guess to give you that answer you were asking for – yes, no or …"

Oh. I kinda see what he means. Is he thinking she's come just to give him a 'no' to his face? You never know with women – especially clever ones. She might think face-to-face is the decent thing to do.

"I think this is your last chance, Heyes. If it's what you want, don't blow it."

""Let's get back…" A belch interrupts him.

"I think we oughta get you sobered up first."

"I'm fine."

I give him a look, "Pfftt!"

A rueful grin appears. "Maybe we oughta get me sobered up first, Kid."

I go up to the bar, "You got any coffee in the back?"

"Fella, we got beer, whiskey and water. We don't sell water."

Sighing, I fold a coupla dollar bills between my fingers, hold them up. "Me and my friend really got a thirst for a pot – no, make that TWO pots - of strong black coffee."

My two dollars are taken. The barkeep looks thoughtful, "TWO pots?" he muses.

Sighing, I produce another two dollars. "AND, bring us some salt before you brew it, would ya?"

First we give Heyes salt water to make him retch. Out back, I hold his head as he brings up mosta the whiskey he's sunk over the last few hours. Then I hold his head under a cold pump.

"I could do with a shave," he hiccoughs, as he soaks his bandana and uses it to wipe his face.

"You could do with a shave, a soak in a tub with a bar of soap, a fresh shirt AND someone knocking some sense into your skull – but we're gonna hafta settle for none of the above, huh?"

His brow furrows for a moment. A tentative sniff – which I reckon picks up whiskey scented sweat with a toasting of stale cigar smoke. He opens a coupla shirt buttons, resoaks the bandana and scrubs at his armpits.

Back inside he swallows cup after cup of back coffee. He gargles with it too, to get the smell of vomit outta his mouth.

"Another!" I order. "One more!"

"No more. I'm about to bust."

"One more! Then go p*ss…." And they say romance is dead, huh? "And hurry up! She's gonna think you've ridden out on her three times runnin'!"

---oooOOOooo---

NOTES TO CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

(nb: there is no need to read the notes - just to show I am actually looking things up, smile)

What Judge Hanley means about the Comstock Act being rushed through:

"_A series of scandals involving financial schemes profiting prominent Republicans and their_ _business cronies had cast a pallor over Washington politics and fueled the reformer Horace Greeley's unsuccessful bid for the presidency in 1872. Laboring under a cloud of suspicion, the Forty-second Congress now worked overtime to end the session with a spate of creditable legislation, as presumably befitted hardworking politicians worthy of the public trust. In the final hours of the term, Congress passed some 260 acts, the precise provisions of which remained unknown to many members. So impressed with their industriousness were these gentlemen that one of the last things they did before adjourning was to vote themselves a pay raise of twenty-five hundred dollars, retroactive for two years. _

_One measure passed in this last-minute frenzy was an anti-obscenity bill approved in the early-morning hours of Sunday, March 2. Commonly called the Comstock Act after its chief proponent, the morals crusader Anthony Comstock, the statute, embedded in a broader postal act, passed after little political debate and was signed into law along with 117 other bills on March 3. The Comstock Act defined contraceptives as obscene and inaugurated a century of indignities associated with birth control's illicit status. Invoking its authority to regulate interstate commerce and the U.S. postal system, Congress outlawed the dissemination through the mail or across state lines of any "article of an immoral nature, or any drug or medicine, or any article whatever for the prevention of conception." At the time, the act largely eluded public comment. Over the next century, however, its impact on birth control would be profound…_

_The Comstock Law thus continued a policy of federal obscenity regulation that in 1873 was more than thirty years old. It expanded the scope of the 1872 law by eliminating loopholes and codifying an extraordinarily long list of "obscenities." Ominously, contraceptives made the list for the first time. The decision to include them was Anthony Comstock's." F_rom"Devices and Desires" by Andrea Tone

The Comstock Laws were variously case tested, but courts struggled to establish definitive thinking about the laws.

The text of the federal bill reads:

"_Be it enacted... That whoever, within the District of Columbia or any of the Territories of the United States...shall sell...or shall offer to sell, or to lend, or to give away, or in any manner to exhibit, or shall otherwise publish or offer to publish in any manner, or shall have in his possession, for any such purpose or purposes, an obscene book, pamphlet, paper, writing, advertisement, circular, print, picture, drawing or other representation, figure, or image on or of paper or other material, or any cast instrument, or other article of an immoral nature, or any drug or medicine, or any article whatever, for the prevention of conception, or for causing unlawful abortion, or shall advertise the same for sale, or shall write or print, or cause to be written or printed, any card, circular, book, pamphlet, advertisement, or notice of any kind, stating when, where, how, or of whom, or by what means, any of the articles in this section…can be purchased or obtained, or shall manufacture, draw, or print, or in any wise make any of such articles, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and on conviction thereof in any court of the United States...he shall be imprisoned at hard labor in the penitentiary for not less than six months nor more than five years for each offense, or fined not less than one hundred dollars nor more than two thousand dollars, with costs of court."_

Comstock clearly hinges on definitions, particularly of obscenity. Though the law was originally based on the Hicklin test, definitions were mostly settled in Roth v. United States, in which it was determined that obscenity was material whose "dominant theme taken as a whole appeals to the prurient interest" to the "average person, applying contemporary community standards," and was, "utterly without redeeming social importance."

Perhaps Judge Hanley has a time machine and was there, or perhaps he simply echoes the Roth v. United States case by some strange fictional co-incidence?

(From good old Wickipedia and _from _"Devices and Desires" by Andrea Tone.)


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN **

**NARRATTED BY NELL**

I make civil small talk with Mrs. Flowers, who is just a little too polite to give her raging curiosity about me full rein. I wish she would go away; then I could pace the floor in impatience. Or, if pacing a hole in her rug was inadequate, I could gnaw frantic holes in the furniture. So, perhaps it is better that she's here, pressing me to take another slice of cake, taking an innocent pride in showing off her best china and asking gently leading questions about me and Hannibal. Of course it did not take her two minutes to realise that he, not Jed Curry, was the object of my – er – search.

My eyes flick constantly to the clock. Every time I hear movement or male voices in the street I twitch like a cat watching a mouse hole. Where is he? Suppose he refuses to see me? If I had written those candid, self-revealing, glaringly truthful – utterly wonderful – letters, asking only for an honest response … If I had written and written and lain myself so open, so vulnerable to hurt… Not just exposing himself to hurt, neither; writing to me literally – well, nearly literally – put his life in my hands…

All he begged in return, was a reply and, from his point of view, I lacked the basic human decency, the common courtesy due to any acquaintance to give it.

Sure, he did not make himself out to be any kind of angel in those letters. He did not claim heady heights of reformation untouched by basic self-preservation. But, because of what he did NOT say, I was able to believe, truly believe, in everything he DID say. He IS the Joshua Smith I fell in love with. It was enough. I have put my trust in him. I have…

No. Enough yapping, even in my head. I am done.

Where IS he? Why is Jed – I suppose I had better call him Thaddeus, even when thinking – taking so long? Why were they not together? They are always together.

I try not to over react to the latest of many footsteps passing the door, but to keep up smiling admiration of a smartly framed photograph of her first grandchild my hostess is showing.

"Nine pound twelve ounces!" I marvel. Ouch! "That IS exceptional. Aw. He looks beautiful!" He does not. He looks like all babies. An expression of baffled outrage on a chubby face. But since the general consensus seems to be that IS beautiful, I am not exactly lying. I sip at my third cup of milky tea.

When, the latest of many footsteps do NOT pass. They grow louder and we hear the sound of the front door. A swallow goes down the wrong way as I leap to my feet.

By the time Mrs. Flowers has said, "That must be the gentlemen now," I am choking.

By the time the parlour door opens I am being patted firmly on the back.

So, the first sight Hannibal gets of me after several months apart, I am not only scarecrow-headed and spotty; I am scarlet in the face with a saliva drool hanging from my lip as I grope for a handkerchief.

"Helen!" He looks – I am not sure – I would guess at horrified, but it is difficult to tell through streaming, still sore eyes.

"Take slow breaths, my dear," Mrs. Flowers is saying, "In out. In out. Why, Mister Smith, is it raining out?"

She's right. His hair is soaking wet.

"Hello – heeek - Joshua," I manage. Honk. Wheeze.

He strides across the room, takes the hand not busy being coughed into. "Helen, what's wrong with you?"

"Tea – honk – went down the wron… Heek!" Splutter.

"No, I mean…" He touches a strand of what's left of my hair. "What's happened? Are you okay?"

"Yes. I haven't been. I am now. Nearly. Oh, Joshua…" Joshua! Joshua! Joshua. I must never slip and call him, Hannibal. I must remember. Which, since I have spent ages coming to terms with the fact he is NOT Joshua, is paradoxical, huh?

"Ma'am," interrupts Jed, speaking to Mrs. Flowers. "…Why don't I give you a hand to carry the tray back to the kitchen an' help you wash up? We could make a fresh pot of tea for Doctor Meredith, brew some coffee for Joshua and me. Maybe you might spoil us all and bring out the oatmeal cookies, huh?"

She takes the hint. Hannibal and I are given a curious, but also motherly, glance and left alone.

As soon as the door shuts, we both speak at once.

"Joshua – I am SO sorry, what must you have thought …It was measles of all the silly diseases…"

"Helen! Are you really okay? What's been happening to…"

We stop at the clash of voices. Then, again.

"To leave you unanswered so long… Forgive me…You see it affected my…"

"I can't believe you're here. I keep thinking I'm gonna wake up!"

We both grin, seeing the funny side together the way we used to.

"Ladies first," he says.

"I am SO sorry. I would not have deliberately left you unsure of my feelings and in suspense for so…"

"Ladies first, but quicker," he interrupts. "Put me outta my misery, Helen. Have you come to say 'It's no, leave me alone forever', or, 'Give me a quiet year to think it over', or…" He stops.

"No!" His face falls. "No, NOT no! I mean, no, I haven't come to say either of those! It's yes! You KNOW it's yes!" Does he not know that? A qualm, one that has bothered me all along, shakes me. "If you still want me, that is? If you haven't changed your…? If it's been too long…? Or, if I just look too hideous now…?"

He shuts me up, by the simple expedient of gathering me to him and kissing me…

"I know I look dreadfu…"

And kissing me…

"I don't want you to feel oblige…"

And kissing me…

"Or, if you've decided you prefer to be fre…"

"Will you shuddup for one dang minute, woman?! Sheesh!"

And he is kissing me. And holding me. Murmuring my name into what's left of my curls… "You're beautiful… You always were beautiful…" Kissing my poor lashless eyes …"I love you, Helen… I'll always love you…" And letting my fingers run through – why IS his hair soaking wet? Kissing my forehead… "I don't wanna be free…" Kissing every inch of my face… "I wanna get hog-tied forever by you…" Letting my hands slip under his jacket to run down the hard muscles of his back… "I adore you…" It is the same as before; I am melting; liquefying in his arms, dizzy with desire. I want him so much.

"Oh, Joshua," I sigh, "…I love you. I mean I love YOU," I mouth 'Hannibal', silently.

His eyes light up at that, at his real name. All that anger and hurt feelings and standing on my dignity – what comfort would that have been if…?

"Suppose I'd died and never got the chance to tell the real you…?" I snuggle in, bury my nose in his shirt front. Sniff. Different tone, "What's that smell? Have you been bathing in coffee?" Another sniff. Has he been bathing at all?

This collides with him repeating, "Died? Helen – have you been so ill I mighta…" The colour bleaches out of his face, "I mighta really LOST you? You look terrible, come sit down."

"Hey," I protest, teasingly. "The sweet talk ran out fast. What happened to me being beautiful? And – why are you sopping wet?"

But I let myself be led to a sofa and pulled into his lap; strong arms fold around me.

"I'm wet and I reek of black coffee because…" A deep breath. "This last week, I finally gave up on you, Helen. Kid hadta drag me outta a saloon where I was drowning my sorrows. This," he touches his hair, "is the result of sobering up under a pump."

"Oh. Have you been…?"

"Gambling hard without fussing too much over whether the other fellas' pockets can afford it and drinking real hard. Uh huh. Since Tuesday. Before then – I was keeping to 'I'm not doing nothing I wouldn't do if SHE could see me' rule."

I want to ask if he has been faithful. But, faithful to what? To his written promises? Do they count if I never took them up?

"Everything I said in my letters is true up to last Tuesday. Please, don't let six days flip me from a yes to a no."

"Oh." My voice is very small.

It is going to eat at me. But, what is the point of asking? If he has 'been' with another woman, do I really want to know? Unless it WOULD flip yes to no – and would it? – what is the point?

I am snuggled closer. "If the question you are mulling over, but not spitting out, concerns 'monogamy'. The answer's, yup – I have been. Monogamous, that is."

Hurrah! The institution of marriage may need reform! Monogamy, that I have no issues with!

"Mind you, I'm not saying you haven't shown up in the nick of time. Saturday being kinda a traditional night for blowing a few dollars on…"

"But I did? Show up in time?" Good!

"Unless you count kissing. After Tuesday that is – before that _'my true lip was virgining it'_."

"I certainly DO count kissing!"

"Well, punish me later. So long as I never give up on you again – and I never will – it'll be the last time I get beat up for straying even that much, so you might wanna save it for when you've got hours to spare on making me really, really, really suffer. Right now, we've only got so long as Kid can keep a lady talking in a kitchen…"

"Could be our chance to find out if time is infinite," I smile.

He grins back, touches my shorn head again, "Tell me what's been happening to you, Curly-Top."

"You remember we thought there was chicken-pox in the offing for the local children – well, maybe you don't remember because Doctor Cooper visited the first two cases just as all the excitement started. It wasn't chicken-pox, it was measles - which is worse, but still we hoped to get through it without any family losing a child – because, unless they are already weak, the odds are pretty good for a simple week of feeling lousy, followed by rapid recovery…"

"Uh huh." My head is on his shoulder. The thumb of the hand round my waist is stroking me, over and over. His lips nuzzle into my hair, a kiss is dropped on my head. This… This is bliss. I want this evening, in this over-furnished parlour, even with him smelling odd, to go on forever.

"So except for when I was needed in court, I was doing the rounds and, it was SO stupid, I caught it…"

"I don't think that's stupid, Helen. I'm not claiming any special medical knowledge – not in present company, huh? – but I think that's how measles works. You spend time near it – you catch it. 'Course you may wanna look it up… Ow! Right, you! For that you deserve…" I am thoroughly, roundly, satisfyingly kissed. Once we have finished mumbling mushy repetitions to each other and I am once again snuggled in the circle of his arms, he carries on, "Now I got you back, I'm not complainin' anyhow, you understand, but did measles really stop you sending a message to Lom all this…?"

"Oh, Han – Josh…"

"Stick with Joshua for the duration, huh?"

"I didn't just have measles! I know they always say doctors are the worst possible patients, but REALLY! I took it to ridiculous lengths! You'd have thought I had studied a list of complications and decided to work down them alphabetically! I suppose maybe I was vulnerable, because I hadn't been eating or sleeping right for a…"

I see his stricken look, shut up. I did NOT mean what he thinks that implies, though – it may be true.

"First I developed encephalitis…"

"Uh huh."

"Yes, exactly! Which is not unknown for adults, since measles is worse for…"

"No. Not, uh huh. Uh huh? Uh huh? As in – I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh. Acute inflammation of the brain. So when your first letter arrived I was away with the fairies, rambling about having to study for my examinations because otherwise the train might get held up and there would be no way to get down to the lake and help the bullfrogs get safely across the Alps…"

"Ah."

"Fortunately, I was talking so much nonsense if anything dangerous DID get mentioned, no one was taking a blind bit of notice. THEN, my lungs became inflamed too! Doctor Cooper says I must have the constitution of an ox to pull through so fast as I did! By the time I came round long enough to have a sensible conversation which was neither sheer fantasy, nor cut short by me falling asleep after five minutes, I'd got three letters waiting, BUT no strength to lift an envelope, AND no eyes fit to read with. I'd developed a corneal infection…"

"Uh huh? Question mark."

"In the eyes…"

"Ah – that accounts for the lashes, huh? I know measles CAN do that. Sheesh," he looks at me, "…Poor old crock!"

"It's been dreadful. I was so frightened…"

A comforting murmur into my hair. I am hugged. "If anythin' had happened to you…"

"NO! Not frightened for me. Though, thinking you might die – AND having a colleague think you might die, because, of course I could tell from his treatment – DOES concentrate the mind wonderfully on what one really wants out of any life left!"

"I thought that was knowing you were gonna be hanged in the morning?"

"I am adapting the quotation to suit! I mean, I was frightened for YOU… I was ages having my eyes bathed and covered and living in the dark. Even when I was well on the mend, I still couldn't see more than a fuzz. I couldn't even TRY to read for weeks and weeks and weeks. I was like a convalescent mole, and SO scared. Because, the letters kept coming and I was terrified someone would open them and that you might give yourself away. I had nightmares about you ending in prison and it all being my fault!"

More murmuring. It is hard for me to be snuggled yet closer, but we manage.

"I was careful with the phrasing. Being very keen to save my own skin," he says.

"I didn't KNOW that, though, did I? At least, I couldn't be sure. Everyone – Aunt Miriam, Ann, Charles – all knew they were from you. Ann knows your writing. My aunt kept offering to read them to me. Ann kept offering. Charles kept offering Ann's services – so listening to that pair was like listening to an echo. They all must have thought I was the silliest woman on the surface of the planet – that I could not bear the embarrassment of hearing something sentimental made public. Or maybe they thought I feared the letters were – you know – explicit. Ann tried to tell me it was hardly fair to leave YOU in the dark as to the situation, so SHE must have thought me callous. I made her swear on her baby's life to hide them and not open them. And, I didn't know what you'd said," I babble so fast the words begin to fall over themselves, "...Maybe you'd simply been sounding off about how mean-spirited I was that last morning. When letters kept coming – I thought, it CAN'T be that! And when they didn't come any more, I didn't know why you'd stopped. I thought maybe I'd lost you! But, I had no way of having anyone make contact without opening your letters – and I couldn't risk it! I didn't even have any idea of which town Lom Trevors was sheriff and how could I ask without raising all kinds of suspicion? Or maybe I could. I don't know. I didn't think I could – but…" My voice falters, "I wasn't very well!"

That sounded like a whine and, to my shame, my lip wobbles.

"Hey! You're not well now! I bet you didn't wait as long as you were supposed to before reading 'em, did you?"

I shrug. But, I reach into my pocket and bring out a case containing deeply tinted spectacles and put them on. "I'm supposed to wear them in any light and not to read. For a while; not forever. I worried…" I stop, looking sheepish.

"You worried 'boys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses'?"

I hang my head. By now I am sure I look positively ovine.

"Sheesh, Helen…" My chin is lifted. "Men are pigs. We'll make passes at anything with a pulse!" A kiss is dropped on the end of my nose. "You looking like a demented bug isn't gonna put me ..."

"Hey!"

"AND, I bet you're not supposed to be travelling – are you?"

"I'm fine!" But as he searches my face, I drop my gaze.

"You're a BAD patient!"

"Guilty, m'lud."

"Does your aunt know where you are?"

"No, I – I slipped away. But I'm sending telegrams telling her I'm safe and sound and not to worry."

"Hmmm. I guess that's something. Listen, we're gonna get you back to Arcadia. You're gonna get strong again. Then, when the amnesty comes through, we'll get married. Then…"

"No we won't!"

"But, you said – yes."

"I'm not waiting for the amnesty! Forget that! We're getting married NOW! Well, not exactly now. Anytime in the next couple of weeks will do. But - with that working definition of terms – we're getting married now! We'll get Sheriff Trevors to arrange a legal…"

"Helen. I don't think that's really feasi.."

"I'm not asking you! I'm dang well telling you! I have just been reminded how fragile life is and how short it can be! I am NOT waiting years, or even A year, or HALF a year! I'm not waiting at all! I am not risking a bullet from a posse, a bounty hunter or a sudden bout of pneumonia meaning we never become man and wife. Period. If I lose you – I lose you. That would hurt anyway. I'd rather be your widow than your nothing. We're getting married. If we can't be together most of the year – so be it. We get married legally under your real name. Lom Trevors can arrange it…"

"Helen, I don't think…"

"Maybe Judge Hanley will officiate? I know he liked me. We know he won't just hand you over. We can put out a very discrete feeler. Then we have another ceremony in Arcadia under the name Joshua Smith, so we can be together without my friends and family imploding…"

"Helen…"

"That is, if Aunt Miriam has not already imploded at my note saying I've gone travelling and will return soon. Whenever you need to leave Arcadia – you go. So far as anyone else is concerned, you travel for your work. Maybe you're on the trail of good articles…"

"Er…"

"We can work on the cover story. You're good at that. When the amnesty comes through, we'll decide where we're going to live. But, I am NOT waiting. Got that?"

"Helen, I think…"

"Yes or no! And you've got a count of ten to make up your mind! I'm not YOU with all the sappy, _'take all the time you need to decide, my love'_, malarkey!"

"Helen…"

"Tick tock, tick tock!"

"Yes! You know dang well it's yes!"

"Good! Because when I'm fully recovered and my inflamed brain returns entirely to normal, I shall probably realise how foolish this is and go back to being boringly sensible. Then, you'll have missed your chance!"

"Can't have that," he smiles.

Sounds of exaggeratedly loud footsteps and very audible throat clearing out in the hallway. "Let me get the door for you, ma'am," booms Jed, giving us plenty of warning. His boots thud, slowly. Obvious fumbling with the handle.

Hannibal grins, unhooks himself from me and strides over.

"Let me help you with that, Thaddeus. Doors can be tricky objects. There we go, twist and pull. Watch again; twist – and pull."

Jed, carrying a gleaming coffee pot in one hand, scowls at him, then tries not to look eaten up with curiosity. Mrs. Flowers is ushered in with a fresh tea- tray.

"Thaddeus, Mrs. Flowers," says Hannibal, "…Congratulations are in order. Doctor Meredith has just done me the very great honour of accepting a proposal of marriage."

"Oh!" gasps Mrs. Flowers, who – to say she does not know me from Adam (or should that be Eve) – seems surprisingly delighted with the news. "Oh, Mister Smith!" His cheek is kissed. He is hugged. He hugs back. Kisses her on the cheek – and the other. Hmmm? I am going to watch him with older women. "Miss – I mean Doctor Meredith!" I am kissed. And hugged. "How wonderful! Congratulations! Never mind tea! I think this calls for a little of my elderflower wine! I love an engagement!" Off she bustles – presumably in search of elderflower wine. Yum!

Now, an enthusiastic response from a motherly stranger is all very nice, but the reaction I am worried about is the one from Jed.

Let me be clear, I am not interested in the position of Hannibal's SECOND best friend. I am not really open even to joint first. BUT, love is not like cake. No one has to lose any, because someone else gets more. No part of me wants THIS friendship to weaken one jot. And, if it ever sickened and died – we would ALL be losers.

I watched him as Hannibal spoke and… I think that sigh and slump was relief. It looked like relief. But…

"Congratulations, Heyes. I'm real glad it's worked out," Jed grunts.

"You helped it work out. I owe you, Kid."

A handshake. They realise how inadequate that is. An awkward man hug, which turns into a real hug for just a second. Brothers in spirit, if not in fact. Embarrassed clearing of throats. Backslapping. Hooking of thumbs into belts. Blue eyes avoiding brown, and vice versa.

"That's great, Doc," Jed nods at me. "For this jackass, I mean. Not for you. Can't imagine what YOU'RE thinking."

"Oh, there will be compensations. If he ever steps out of line for a single second, I trade him in for the money. Perfect control for me; the life of a serf for him. Just as it should be! And, by the way, don't I get a hug?"

I get a hug. "Hey, Jed," I smile. "Don't worry. I'll still let him out to play cowboys. I sure won't be wanting him under MY feet all the time."

"Sheesh," he tries to smile back. "You mean I still hafta put up with him?"

"Sure do, Kid," says Hannibal, his voice gruff. "I'm afraid nothing'll ever change that."

---oooOOOooo---

**EPILOGUE – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY**

I'm out on the porch smoking a celebratory cigar, blowing smoke rings and watching them drift up. Every so often, I glance in the direction of South Street. Heyes is walking Nell to these lodgings run by Mrs. Flowers' cousin. She hasta be there before half past nine. Which gave them nearly an hour to cover about five hundred yards, but I can't see 'em hurrying – can you? Something tells me they might be getting another glass of elderflower wine, delighted talk about weddings and reminiscences of 'when I was a bride' when they DO finally arrive.

Then maybe Heyes and me'll go for a quiet beer – if we can find somewhere quiet. NOT the Broken Arrow. He won't wanna stay out late though. I know he's booked for a gentle stroll – Nell is supposed to be taking things easy - to Holme Hill in the morning. They're gonna do some plotting and scheming about this dumb double wedding.

I sigh. I know earlier I was talking 'bout not minding quieter nights and wasn't exactly rushing to go join in any hurrahing going on. But… I dunno.

If he… I mean WHEN he – y'know – marries Nell, what'll it mean?

I know everything she wants outta life. A fella can't live in the same house as Nell the way I did back in the spring and NOT know all her plans for putting the world to rights and seeing her name in the medical history books. Not unless he wears earplugs anyhow!

As for Heyes, I guess I can see he's realised he's nearly as good spinning words on paper as he is using the silver tongue. AND, it gives him a bigger audience. Once the amnesty comes through, I can picture him lapping up appreciation for driving up circulation figures. I can picture him working away on his – y'know. You DO know! I just can't think of the word. One of them books which is all about some fella's life – but instead of someone else writing it, the fella writes it himself. I can see Heyes making everything we ever did into cliffhangers and tearjerkers and planning to crack the bestseller list the way he planned to crack the Pierce and Hamilton '78!

I can see him joining in Nell's setting the world to rights one piece a time too. He'll do it for sheer beating the odds. 'We'll never see that change in our lifetime!' 'We can never persuade people to vote for this!' Heyes'll get that wanna-wager-on-that? look in his eyes and set about proving folk wrong.

I can see her swelling with pride when he gets published in some fancy journal.

I can see him strutting like a peacock when she gets some classy hospital post.

What I can't see…

Nah. It sounds mean.

Okay, I'll spit it out. What I can't see, is where the Sam Hill I fit in.

Or rather I can see all too well. I fit in nowhere.

Sure, I'll be made welcome, given dinner, the guest room'll be spruced up for me, Nell'll be real sweet and take an interest in whatever I'm doing, Heyes'll come out for a drink with me…

It IS mean for even a tiny part of me to wish he'd never even…

She did save my life.

And, I do like her.

I guess, I kinda thought if either of us ended up settling down, it'd be me. Not SOON! Sheesh, no. But maybe sometime. A nice home-loving girl. A place with some land. Maybe horses. I always pictured Heyes as the one who'd be the guest.

A phrase keeps coming to me as I lounge here, blowing smoke at the moon: The end of an era. I musta heard it from Heyes sometime, huh? Seems to fit though.

Y'know what? If this were a book – and if it WEREN'T the story of Heyes and Nell – if it were really the story of me and him being partners and living all fancy-free, this'd be about the time the writer'd hafta put…

**THE END**


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